Not Quite A Maia
by Kara's Aunty
Summary: Middle Earth has a problem: Gandalf the Grey is AWOL in Time & Space after destroying the Balrog of Khazad-dûm. But who will take his place in the Quest to defeat the Dark Lord Sauron? Not who you think... HP/LOTR Crossover. Wildly AU!
1. Absent Without Official Leave

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. and Lord of the Rings and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

**Credit:** www dot Tuckborough dot com and en dot wikipaedia dot org/wiki

**Not Quite A Maia**

**Chapter 1**

On a balcony stretching from the halls of Ilmarin atop Mount Taniquetil - the highest mountain in Arda - stood a figure draped in blue cloth wielding a powerful sapphire-coated staff. A gift from the Noldor, it was said. But he had no wont to admire its shimmering detail, for a more urgent demand must be met.

"Olórin!"

No reply.

Perhaps another attempt?

"Heed me, Grey Pilgrim. I command thee!"

But the Maia remained elusive, silent.

Manwë frowned. The wizard should have responded.

Why did he not come when called?

Varda came to him, as he pondered this puzzle. "Beloved, thou dost not find he whom thou seeks?"

"Nay, wife. He wanders yet out of reach of my voice, or harkens not to it - I know not which. I cannot locate him, though long have I stood here and called out his name."

"The blanket of night blinds thine eyes to reaches beyond time and measure, husband. Perhaps our friend is further than any have yet been?"

Blue robes rustled softly as he turned to face the beauteous creature that was his eternal spouse. "That time is not yet upon us," he replied. "Eru Ilúvatar will call all together, or none at all. Thou art aware of this."

She smiled and light shone from her eyes, as his love for her burned in his heart, brightening the darkness his sight and voice sought to pierce. "Then perhaps he is a-wandering?" Her voice was light, almost teasing.

"Let it not be thus!" he declared impatiently. "The hour is late for curious minds to begin exploring the undiscovered reaches of Time and Space. He would not dare: the quest awaits him!"

"Yet he who is free to wander Time and Space may find all the time he needs, my love," laughed Varda merrily. "Thou art aware of _this_."

Manwë took a seat on a balcony settle. "It seems he has acquired a taste for exploration: perhaps Gandalf the Grey has walked too long and too freely amidst those who dwell in Middle Earth."

Laying a gentle hand on his shoulder, she who was his wife took her seat next to him. "Nay, beloved. Not freely. Ever was his path filled with ignorance, trial and confrontation; long has he battled against the evil we would see banished from existence. Allow him respite to recover from his heavy burden."

Surprised, he observed the gentle plea on her countenance. "And what of the Quest? Sauron grows stronger as we speak, Saruman the Deceitful seeks to subvert our cause, the Fellowship is sundered and the Ring-bearer struggles to achieve his goal. Without the guidance of the Maia, all are lost."

"Without the guidance of a _Wizard_, all are lost," Varda replied enigmatically.

"Maiar _are_ Wizards, wife," said Manwë, perplexed.

A radiant smile. "Indeed, but not all Wizards are _Maia_."

The Vala frowned again. "Seek thou to plunge me wholly in mists of confusion? There exist no other Wizards who be not Maia." He paused, then amended, with a touch of bitterness: "Or who _were_ not."

His wife's sweet voice replied: "Not _yet_."

She cupped his chin delicately. "There are those who exist in other Times that may assist us now, and thus allow Olórin the richly deserved reward of a peaceful journey to other realms."

"But this be _his _duty."

"His duty was to counsel and assist all those who must stand against the tyranny of Sauron. This he has done. What aid they require now from a Wizard, may also be provided by one who has experience in the fight against their own dark lord. A noble spirit, who seeks neither power nor acclaim of his own, but has proven his strength, wisdom and fortitude against the most powerful of evils to dwell in his own world."

Manwë rose, then turned to gaze down upon the loveliest of the Valar. "Gandalf the Grey is appointed his task, wife. If he cannot achieve it, none can! He is the wisest of the Maiar, he has united the races of Middle Earth in a common cause _and _he has slain a Balrog. But the war is not yet won. Where dost thou propose we find such a one as he? One who possesses knowledge of such powerful arts that will be necessary for the trials ahead? One of such conviction, such purity of heart?"

Gathering her skirts, Varda gracefully lifted herself from her seat and took his hands, her warm smile illuminating the cool night, and gave her answer.

"Hogwarts."

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**


	2. Decisions, Decisions

******Disclaimer: **Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. and Lord of the Rings and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

**Credit:** hp-encyclopedia dot net and Tuckborough dot net

**Not Quite A Maia**

**Chapter 2**

Time and Space fell away as the two Valar descended unseen onto the field of a great battle where they silently observed the unfolding carnage.

A magnificent castle with soaring turrets and endless rooms was ablaze with light, its towers crumbling and walls pocked with gaping holes. On the grounds before it, hundreds of beings were gathered, opposing sides of good and evil. The side of Light stood directly before the castle facing the enemy in apparent submission, grieved and exhausted from the battle fought. Row upon row of them, many less than eighteen winters of Men, clothed in strange garments which may once have been colourful, but were now thickly coated in blood and filth. Open wounds spilled their life's treasure freely but still they stood, forms stiff with shock and denial.

The enemy they faced crowed triumphantly, evil sneers on faces rendered ugly with hatred. But not all of them were crowing; for amidst their ranks stood one taller than men, yet smaller than troll and nowhere near as hideous. Great waves of shaggy black hair and beard shook with grief as he clasped the limp form of a bespectacled boy who appeared as small as a hobbit child in his grasp.

The air was heavy with tense expectation.

Suddenly, triumphant words called out to the battle-weary masses defending their home. A tall, thin man with red eyes challenged them with evil glare, poison in every breath that issued forth from his vile mouth; around his feet a great serpent twined, uncommon in length and girth.

The Dark Lord.

His adoring followers threw him worshipful looks as the unnatural being spoke false words of treaty to the defeated onlookers, displaying the boy's body as a trophy of sorts. His weary opponents uttered cries of disbelieving horror, weeping bitterly before the dead body of their hero.

"Have they fallen?" queried Manwë of his wife.

"Observe and see who the true victors are," replied Varda.

A cry and a struggle drew his attention back to the battlefield. Another boy now stood between the opposing sides, yelling his scorn at the Dark Lord and giving hope to his friends, but he soon paid the price for his folly as an object descended upon him and consumed him in flame.

"Animals! They are no more than beasts that devour their young!" protested Manwë in outrage. "Magic is an art, a gift, yet they wield it with malice and hate."

"And Sauron does not? All is not as it seems," soothed his spouse. "Observe..."

The flames were suddenly extinguished as the object was drawn from the smouldering boy's head. Without missing a beat, he plunged his hand into the object's depths and drew a bejewelled sword and with one, smooth swipe, he deprived the rearing serpent of its head, sending it flying across the lawn to land at the feet of its master. The Dark Lord roared in outrage, incensed at the loss of his pet and sought to deprive the boy of his own life, but a subtle movement caught Manwe's eye and he saw the limp form of the child in the large man's arms point a stick and intercede on his follower's behalf. The curse aimed at the rebellious child careened safely away from him.

"He was not dead?"

Varda smiled at him. "Did I not say that all was not as it seemed?"

With the smouldering boy's act of defiance, the army at his back surged forward and at the same time fresh troops arrived as if out of nowhere. Part man-part horse figures galloped across the red-soaked lawn towards the enemy wielding bows and arrows with deadly accuracy into the ranks of hooded figures; the ground shook with the mighty steps of rampaging giants as they screamed and stumbled in painful rage, their eyes pierced with the razor sharp claws of flying beasts; coloured jets of light sprang forth from little wooden staffs held by most of the combatants - men, women and children alike - which they waved in furious, complicated patterns, causing jets of coloured light to burst forth upon their enemies in either offence or defence...or terrible retaliation. Screaming figures of all ages writhed on the ground in agonies untold, inflicted with wounds he had never seen the like of in all the millennia of his life - and many others that lay there moved not at all.

"What is this place?" asked the shocked voice of Manwë.

"'Tis Hogwarts, husband, on the day their war ended."

"A war of Wizards! I had not thought it possible to gaze upon magic on such a scale. That so many of them exist would be a wonder to many, if they witnessed not the scene before us now. Observe: they slay their children. Abhorrent creatures!"

"It is war, beloved and in such times, innocence is often the first casualty. But this day decides their future."

They wandered unseen amid the furious masses and saw that the battle spilled into the halls of the building. People tumbled from staircases and stumbled through doorways, eager to vanquish once and for all the threat of the Dark Lord. The evil being himself was engaged against several opponents at once, but his magic appeared to fail him, for every time he tried to end a life a shimmering wall of defence would appear out of nowhere and deflect his curses.

They were, apparently, not the only beings with the ability to wander unseen through the halls and Manwë knew the bespectacled boy must be present in the building too. His brave friend fought in tandem with another against a hideous creature, part man-part wolf by the look of him, though even his fierce appearance could not save him from his doom at their hands.

Finally, the risen child faced the Dark Lord and both Valar watched as the epitome of evil danced his last amidst the astounded onlookers.

"I have seen enough." Sapphire staff in hand, he clasped his wife's fingers and they departed once more into the depths of non-existence.

Back in their own halls, he turned to his wife. "Tell me more of thy Chosen One."

Varda smiled and did just that.

He remained silent for a while, pondering her choice. ""I am not at ease with this, my love. He is a child yet."

"Amongst the Wizards and Men of our world, perhaps. But amidst the Wizards of his own, seventeen marks the passing into manhood."

Manwë was not convinced. "He knows too little of struggle and responsibility. The people of the West will not harken to him."

"Nay, beloved. He has struggled all his life to find his niche. These last few years of his existence have seen him bloom and grow under the threat of dominion. He has united his people and taught them to stand against tyranny and depravity. Is this not what we seek?"

He walked slowly towards the garden adjacent to the room and entered it, breathing deeply of the fragrant blooms. She followed him, awaiting his response.

"I will not deny the deeds my eyes have seen, but his war and ours are not alike. His was one battle; Middle Earth's may be numerous. Will his magicks suffice against the force of so many?"

Varda circled his form until she stood before him. "The Wizardry of his kind differs from our own, it is true. But that does not make it insufficient: indeed, the power of his kind is like none our eyes have seen before. And his inherent altruism means we need not fear he will sway from the path we show him to use it with ill intent - such a thing is foreign to him."

"I do not refute that, wife. But he is so..._young_. How can we rob him of the quietude he has recently won to thrust him into another war? And even were he to accept this task, guidance would still be required to aid him on his way."

His spouse took a seat on the soft grass and the blossoms of the earth seemed to lean towards the light she exuded, delighting in her presence. Arching a brow at her casual repose, he quickly joined her and she leaned into the comfort of his arms, speaking softly.

"A companion with whom he may unburden his troubles and seek wisdom from would find no objection from my lips, husband," she offered submissively, stroking the hand which clasped her securely against her mate. "Let this guide be worthy of him; loyal, sturdy and able to defend them both, if required."

He laughed. "Thy words and tone betray thee, wife; for if thou hast not already such a one in mind, then I be the flying head of a dead serpent!"

Varda joined his merriment. "I confess that I have such a one in mind. One observed by thine own eyes in the heat of the battle." She whispered the name of her second choice and he laughed again, the tinkling of his musical notes drifting towards the trees and captivating the birds.

"How can I deny such wisdom? An able guide, a fierce protector! Let it be thus. Middle Earth will be little prepared for such a pair."

His wife smiled contentedly, and Manwë rested his chin upon her shoulder, hoping that the chosen two may be fully capable of filling the much worn boots of a wandering Maia - for the sake of them all.

And as they enjoyed the afternoon sun in the garden of the halls of Ilmarin, far away in time and space two figures lay in the temporary shelter of a devastated Hogwarts, grieved, yet victorious, weary, yet rejuvenated under the illusion of a lasting peace.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Author's Note:_ The next chapter will be HP Wizarding World-centric, and our two heroes are in for a bit of a shock as they stumble from one war in to another. But who are they? You may think you know who one is, but I guarantee you, you'll never guess the other! From this point onwards, chapters will be significantly longer.

Kara's Aunty :o)


	3. A Day of Surprises

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. and Lord of the Rings and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

**Credit:** www dot hp-encyclopedia dot com and www dot Tuckborough dot net.

**Not Quite A Maia**

**Chapter 3**

The large paddock of the Burrow was scattered with mourners who had come to pay their respects following the burial of Fred Weasley. A quiet funeral had originally been planned the week after the War's end, but Fred had been extremely popular with all who knew him: a friend, a prankster, an ally, an inspiration - the Weasleys didn't have the heart to refuse those who enquired about burial arrangements. Everyone missed Arthur and Molly's child - something _they_ understood all too well. Despite this, Mrs Weasley had asked that only those close to the family, such as relatives and Order members who had known their son, attend the wake that followed. They had six other children who needed their parents and though the threat of danger was finally over, she could not bear to have them out of sight amidst a hundred or so mourners.

Ginny asked her mother for permission to have Neville Longbottom and Luna Lovegood at the wake. The youngest Weasley had developed a close bond with them during that final terrible year at Hogwarts and her parents were only too happy to see her surrounded by those who had been so supportive of her at that time, especially if their company could distract her from her grief for a little while.

And so it was that, after the funeral, Neville and Augusta Longbottom arrived just behind Luna and her father, Xenophilius, as the latter two wandered towards the family residence to offer their condolences.

"Honestly," fussed Mrs Longbottom, "he could have made an attempt at sobriety for the occasion. It's a funeral, for Merlin's sake, not a birthday party."

She was referring to Xenophilius' bright orange flowing robes, which clashed horribly with the vibrantly luminous yellow triangle that hung around his neck on a gold chain.

Neville sighed. "It's just the way he is Gran. He doesn't mean any disrespect: in fact, he told me on the way down here that he wore orange especially for Fred."

His grandmother looked at him in disbelief. "Exactly _how_ is that painful shade of orange intended to denote respect, young man?" she demanded, as if he'd personally assisted Luna's mad father into the ridiculous garments.

"Dunno. Maybe it's something to do with the Weasley hair," he suggested hopefully.

She huffed in annoyance. "Neville Longbottom, you may know a thing or two about lobbing heads off giant snakes, but you know nothing about funerals!"

So saying, she strode through the grounds into the Burrow and the stuffed vulture shook so violently on her hat that, with a little more effort, he imagined it may yet know the joy of flight once more. Neville was left stranded in the garden, standing beside tables groaning with sandwiches and soup as the other mourners milled silently around him.

_Maybe not, but I'm learning faster than I'd like to,_ he thought morosely, remembering Colin Creevey's funeral the day before,;Lupin's and Tonks' joint one the day before that; Lavender Brown's ...

The list went on.

A hand clapped him on the back and he jumped, startled.

"Neville Longbottom! How the devil are you, dear boy?"

Such affability seemed a little out of place, given the circumstances, so he turned to see who on earth the jolly voice belonged to. "Oh, hullo Mr -"

Blimey. Who was that?

"Doge. Elphias Doge," declared the elderly man, whose puffy white hair was crowned with a shiny, new, black Bowler hat - bought just for the occasion - which he pulled off his head briefly in greeting. "You may remember me from Bill's wedding?"

"Er, sorry, no, but I wasn't there," admitted Neville. Doge. Where did he know that name from?

Doge, with his wrinkled hand still firmly on Neville's back, pulled him towards a bench and encouraged him to sit.

"Terrible business, isn't it? He was a fine young man, was Fred Weasley." The elderly wizard shook head sadly. "Tragic, just tragic."

Neville didn't really know how to respond to that, other than nodding his agreement; the mixture of giddy joy and deep grief pouring from the Wizarding World these days left him feeling confused and a little bit guilty; after all, he and his Gran had both survived. Even his parents had survived relatively unscathed - if you didn't count the fact that they had been Crucio-ed beyond wit and wisdom almost seventeen years since. Frowning, he threw a glance at his companion. What did the old man want with him?

Perplexed, he grabbed a beef sandwich from a swaying pile and shoved a good part of it in his mouth, trying to recall where he'd heard the name of Elphias Doge.

"Still," said the old wizard a little more brightly. "Even in such circumstances there's good to be found."

With mustard clinging to the corner of his mouth, Neville eyed the rambling man in disbelief and wondered whether the Weasleys would agree with that.

Elphias flushed slightly. "Don't misunderstand me, dear boy: the death of one's child is a terrible thing, but if nothing else, Molly and Arthur have the comfort of another six to see them through. A large family is a blessing at any time, but more so in times of grief, as I have had the questionable fortune of observing."

Well, perhaps he had a point with that. It must be nice to have so many relatives looking out for you, to have parents who could really offer comfort. Having suddenly Lost his appetite, Neville dropped his sandwich on a plate and cut the man off, not caring if he appeared brash.

"Look, Mr ... er ... Doge: was there something you wanted to speak to me about?" He wasn't going to sit here for the rest of the day and listen to the old man rabbitting on about large families. This wake was supposed to be about celebrating Fred's life and comforting his loved ones, not sinking into the ruddy doldrums over his own lack of (lucid) relations.

"Forgive me, dear boy, I do rather tend to ramble on a bit at times."

Feeling rather guilty at his uncharacteristic outburst, the teenager poured Doge a glass of lemonade, which the old wizard accepted with a smile.

"You're a good boy, Neville Longbottom. Remind me of your father, you know. Very hospitable chap Frank was. Where was I? Oh yes! You probably remember me from Bill's wedding -"

Neville sighed again. They had already been through this.

"- when I spoke with young Harry Potter about the article -"

The article, of course! Elphias Doge wrote Professor Dumbledore's obituary for the Daily Prophet not long after the headmaster's death.

"- and therefore know that we were great friends. What you may not know, is that I have decided to write my own biography on his life to repudiate the scandalous slurs printed by that odious Skeeter woman in her rag of a book."

Doge was puce with anger at the mention of the devious reporter and Neville sympathised. Skeeter had caused a lot of people a lot of pain over the years. Especially poor Harry.

"Therefore," continued Doge after taking a cool gulp of lemonade to calm himself, "I wish to talk with those whose lives he influenced for the better: to show what a shining example he was to us all. As the headmaster of your school and the man who inspired your now famous rebellion against the Death Eaters and Lord V ... V ... eh, Vo ... oh goodness gracious ... against You-Know-Who, it seems only fitting to hear from you yourself as to how his excellent example helped mould the iron will of a warrior!"

Iron will of a warrior? Neville wasn't so sure about that. At the time he'd been so numbed with shock after carrying the corpses of his classmates back into the castle and, later, so consumed with anger at the sneering lies of the hated wizard - with his outrageous claims that Harry Potter had died while trying to flee like a coward - that he had snapped. He'd had it up to his back teeth with dark lords and Death Eaters, living in fear and secretly training for battle under the constant threat of discovery, and all he'd really wanted to do at that point was Avada Kedavra the evil git into the next millennium. Later that night, when he'd lain on the couch in the Gryffindor common room with the events replaying in his head, surrounded by other survivors who sought the reassurance company brought, it seemed as if he was thinking about a completely different person.

"Oh. Well, I em ... Look, Mr Doge -"

"Elphias, dear boy, I absolutely insist you call me Elphias!"

Oh yeah, because Gran _absolutely_ wouldn't mind that her teenaged grandson was addressing someone as ancient as him by his first name. Augusta Longbottom may be inordinately proud of him, but she'd still chew his ears off if she thought he couldn't mind his manners!

"Well, anyway sir; I'm not really sure this is the best time to be discussing that, what with Mr and Mrs Weasley having just buried their son. I'd be happy to talk about it some other time though," he added, seeing the old man's crestfallen expression. "Maybe after things have settled a bit."

Doge brightened considerably. "Of course, of course - you have the right of it, young Neville. So like your mother, Alice. A sweet girl, she was."

_She's not dead yet, you know,_ he thought, annoyed at the tendency of people to discuss his parents in the past tense. Half the Wizarding World knew that Frank and Alice Longbottom resided in St Mungo's, and although people rarely talked to him of them, there was no reason to act like they'd been wiped out of existence.

Rising stiffly from the bench he nodded politely to Doge. "Just let me know when you'd like to talk about the DA, and I'll see if Ginny and Luna can come at the same time. It'll save you having to arrange three separate meetings and we'll all be able to give you whatever you need for your book." Neville offered his dead headmaster's friend a warm handshake. "He was the best wizard I ever knew; we all miss him, you know. There was no one else like him and I don't think there ever will be - at least, not in my lifetime."

Doge eyed him shrewdly. "Don't sell yourself short, boy. You're quite the wizard yourself, and I can tell you for a fact that Albus would be enormously proud of _this_ Gryffindor hero," he said, jabbing a spindly finger in his stomach.

Now Neville was the one flushing. "Right. Er, well, I eh, need to go and pay my respects to the Weasleys, Mr Doge, so I'd best be off before Gran comes looking for me." He departed as hastily as he could, embarrassed at the old man's praise - but Doge called after him, causing a few of the other mourners to turn their heads in surprise.

"Tell that grandmother of yours I'd be happy to write a book on the formidable Augusta Longbottom too! Always delighted to spend some time contemplating the colourful history of such a spirited filly!"

The youngest Longbottom snorted in disbelief as he approached the Burrow proper. Yeah, that would go down a treat. His face would be the only colourful thing around here if he related Doge's words to the prim family matriarch!

**XXX**

Entering the crooked cottage through the kitchen door, Neville found the small area cramped with guests, some of them seated at the wooden table, others crowded around the fireplace. The mantelpiece was covered with empty glasses which, one by one, were lining up to be spirited away for a good scrubbing in the kitchen sink by a Floatation charm. The sink was filled with soapy bubbles, a brush scrubbing merrily away at each new item that drifted over from the mantelpiece.

Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny were sitting at the table and he approached them, rather unsure of what to say to his Weasley friends.

"Hullo Ginny, Ron," he said a bit nervously, nodding at the others. Ginny and Hermione stood and enveloped him in warm hugs, which made him blush. Neville wasn't really used to this sort of physical affection. Gran sometimes patted his back (and Great Uncle Algie still ruffled his hair, which annoyed him no end), but other than that he wasn't really much of a touchy-feely person.

"Erm, I just wanted to say -"

Ron and Ginny flinched slightly and Neville suspected they were probably sick of people coming up to them, offering well-meaning platitudes, so he quickly amended his words.

"- that I think Fred would've liked the service. I mean, the fireworks were amazing. Whose idea was it to show him using old Riddle as a Bludger and smashing him through the veil at the Department of Mysteries?"

The red-haired siblings smiled at him with silent gratitude. "That was George," said Ron in admiration. "Bloody brilliant, eh?"

He nodded. "Look, before I join you, I was wondering if you knew were your mum is?"

"Upstairs, making a bed up for Harry. She's a little ... well, you can imagine, so try not to -"

"Oh, no! Don't worry, it's about something else. I don't want to upset her. But I'll wait 'til she comes down, though - don't want to intrude and all that."

Ginny gave him a very Weasley glare. "Neville Longbottom, you couldn't intrude if you tried! Now get up there and say hello - she'll be happy to see you. Merlin knows she could use a friendly face. Always weeping in corners when she thinks no one's looking! Fred would be so upset if he thought she was crying over him at every opportunity."

Her lip trembled slightly as she said this and Hermione gave her a comforting squeeze before Harry pulled her back down beside him, clasping her hand tightly in his own. Neville offered a weak smile before making his way up the crooked staircase.

"Fifth floor, Ron's room!" yelled Ginny after him and he plodded slowly upwards until he reached his destination. A door lay slightly ajar at the top of the landing and he could see the glare of orange and black: Chudley Cannon colours. A small grin lit the corners of his mouth at his friend's devotion to the worst Quidditch team in England. But hearing sniffles emanating from the room quickly wiped it away.

Perhaps this wasn't such a good idea? Standing on the last step before the fifth floor, Neville wondered why he felt it necessary to trouble the motherly witch with something so small when she was still upset over the death of her child. He debated turning back when a voice behind him made him jump almost a foot high.

"Neville? You alright up there, mate?" Grasping on to the creaky banister with a sweaty palm, he spun round to see Charlie frowning up at him slightly.

Well, there went his escape plan. The door to Ron's room opened at the sound of voices and Neville winced. "Oh, yeah, fine thanks. I, eh, just needed to talk with your mum for a minute, that's all." Charlie bobbed his head in acknowledgement and left as Mrs Weasley popped out the room.

"Why, Neville, dear!" Her eyes were red and slightly swollen, but she waved him in and handed him a cotton sheet. "If you don't mind pulling that over the mattress, dear, and tucking it in while I put the pillowcases on?"

Complying, he fumbled at the bed corners as she lifted a red pillowcase covered in zooming Snitches and began to stuff a pillow into it.

This was not exactly how he had planned his chat with her, but it seemed it was as good as it was going to get.

"Mrs Weasley?" he began.

"Yes, dear?" she said tremulously. Neville hoped desperately that she wasn't going to cry. How would he console her? He wasn't very good at that sort of thing (and Ginny would probably kill him if she thought he came all the way up here just to upset her mother).

"Erm, I need to say ... that is, I _want _to say thank you."

There, he'd done it.

And he'd obviously taken the witch by surprise because she stopped shaking the pillow in a mad fury and regarded him with two raised eyebrows. "Thank you, dear? Whatever for?"

He abandoned his attempt to artlessly cram the sheet under the mattress and faced her. What he had to say should be done standing upright and with great respect.

"For killing the bit ... I mean, finishing off Bellatrix Lestrange," he amended hastily. "Oh, I know you didn't do it for me or my parents, but I don't care. Ever since I can remember, I've wanted the people that ruined their lives to pay for it - and now, thanks to you, the worst of them is gone forever."

"Why, Neville! You don't have to thank me for that, dear," Mrs Weasley declared. "It was my pleasure," she added darkly, grief temporarily subdued as she gripped the helpless pillow murderously. The Snitches were momentarily hampered in their merry travels across the expanse of cotton as her fingers sank into the red material.

The stout witch smiled at him rather sadly. "I daresay that you would have liked the pleasure of getting rid of her yourself, after all the pain she caused you. So perhaps I should apologise for denying you the chance."

Neville was horrified. "No! Not at all. Absolutely not, Mrs Weasley! She's gone for good - it doesn't really matter if it was by my wand or yours; she'll never hurt anyone ever again, that's the important thing."

"You're a dear boy, Neville," Mrs Weasley said. "Always so mindful of others. Your parents would be very proud of their son; I know I would be, if you were mine."

The unexpected warmth behind her words made his eyes grow hot and his throat constrict. "Thanks, Mrs Weasley, that's ... that's a really nice thing to say," he managed to choke out. Oh Merlin, if he started crying in front of her when she was the one who was more in need of his support ...

"Come here, dear. Sit down." She pulled him towards Ron's bed where they both took a seat. "I know it's not been easy for you, with them spending most of your life in St Mungo's instead of at your side. Oh, I know your grandmother did her very best - and an excellent job she did too, for you're a credit to her - but, well, it must have been difficult for you seeing other children being hugged, comforted or even scolded by their mums and dads when yours don't even seem to recognise you."

He didn't know what to say - her words hit too close to home.

"But," Mrs Weasley continued, "I knew both your parents long before the dreadful night they were attacked and I saw them with you several times after you were born. They adored you, dear! Your father was convinced he had the best boy in all of Britain - Muggle or wizard - and would pull out his album of photos for visitors at the house to admire before he even offered them tea!" She laughed at the memory and Neville's eyes shone at the unexpected gift of her revelation.

"Alice used to chide him for being so inhospitable to guests, but he never listened. It was always 'my son Neville this' or 'my son Neville that' and she would never stay cross with him for very long because she agreed with his every word. They used to plan where they would take you when you grew up, and what they would teach you. Augusta always said they were far too indulgent, but even she was not immune to your chubby face and laughing eyes."

Yeah, well, that chubby face was still doing the rounds, even if his eyes weren't quite as full of humour as in his younger days. But even as that thought flashed through his mind, he was unwilling to disturb the Weasley matriarch, for he rarely heard about the more carefree side of his parents, especially from their old friends.

"And even though you've had to put your chin up and get on with your life without the benefit of their instruction, I know that somewhere, deep down, they know you for who you really are and they love you for what you've accomplished. How could they not? They are your parents, and parents never forget ... not really."

Her brown eyes sparkled with sincerity and a good deal of unshed tears. Neville was amazed by her generous heart, particularly under the circumstances. He wanted to show her the same kindness, to ease her own pain in any small way he could and wished that a wave of his wand could make her feel better. That was unlikely though, so he settled for the few words of comfort he felt might soothe her heart a little bit.

"I didn't know Fred as well as I would've liked, Mrs Weasley. I mean, we were in the same House and saw each other in school every day and all that - we were even in the DA together - but I think you should know this: he was always laughing and always keen to make everyone else laugh too. He rarely had a bad word to say about anyone, unless they deserved it, and he _always_ went out of his way to help those that needed it. Fred loved life and he loved his family even more. He was the picture of happiness, the spirit of generosity and the pinnacle of humanity."

His heart was pounding in his chest and Neville fervently hoped he wasn't upsetting the matronly witch.

"Fred was one of the best people I've ever met and that was no doubt down to the example set by his dad - and by you Mrs Weasley. When I die, if I can look back on my life and know that I've experienced even a fraction of the love, warmth and security that he knew with you, I'll count myself as having lived a life full of joy and thank Merlin for my very good fortune."

Neville had never spoken at such length, or in such a way, in all his days and he wasn't sure if it had been the right thing to do; but when Fred's mother gave a wrenching sob and threw her arms around him in a bone-crushing hug, he felt relief at having found the right words after all.

A cough at the door interrupted them and he withdrew from Mrs Weasley's grasp as Gran entered the room.

"Ah, there you are young man. Where on earth have you been? Not making a nuisance of yourself, I hope?"

"Quite the contrary," said Mrs Weasley firmly as she rose and pulled him up by the arm, clasping it almost protectively. "You should know that you have a fine young man here, Augusta. Any mother would be proud of him." There was a hint of challenge in her tone and Neville wished the floors would open up and swallow him all the way back down to the kitchen.

Fortunately, Gran only huffed slightly. "Yes, well, his grandmother is rather proud of him too; but it wouldn't do to tell him that every minute. Don't want him growing up as deluded as a Malfoy now, do we?"

Then, to Neville's astonishment, her voice softened as her gaze fell on him. "Not that you ever would, of course: far too much of that Longbottom sense in you."

Oh crikey, if he had to listen to much more of this gushing praise (and from Gran, too) he'd forego the open floorboards and just exit through the window.

"Anyway, enough of that," Augusta said briskly. "I came to offer my services in the kitchen Molly, or wherever else you need them at the moment. Neville, Miss Lovegood and your other friends are out by the pond, so once you've greeted Arthur, you may join them. Off you go now."

Neville left the two witches to the bed-making and gratefully exited the bedroom, clumping his way down the winding stairs. He wasn't offended by his Gran's brusque tone because he was used to it. Other people may find her a bit harsh at times, but he knew she meant well and he loved her dearly.

But he could still feel the warm affection of Mrs Weasley's tight embrace lingering on his arms, and he wondered if there would ever be a time when his own mum would hug him with quite the same fervour.

**XXX**

Later that evening, back in the familiarity of his greenhouse in the rear garden of the Yorkshire home he shared with his grandmother, Neville performed the ritual check of all the plants he cultivated. The Alihotsy plant was flourishing in the magically controlled temperature of the enclosure. He really ought to stock up on some more Glumbumble fluid though. Not that he had any intention of consuming Alihotsy leaves any time soon, but it was always wise to have the antidote handy in case an oversight rendered some unsuspecting person raving like a lunatic for the rest of their life.

Why did he have to go and think of Luna's father just then? Xenophilius may be a bit...odd, but he was still a perfectly decent old chap.

The Bouncing Bulbs were still young yet, but would grow nicely; the Puffapod plants displayed their fat pink pods proudly and he smiled at them, relishing the thought of dropping some of their beans in the garden later in Spring just to watch them flower prettily. That always cheered him up - even Gran smiled.

At the thought of late Spring, Neville's feet ground to a halt as something else occurred to him.

What was he going to do now? The war was over and so was his schooling, unless he chose to go back to Hogwarts after the summer and repeat the final year like Harry, Ron and Hermione were thinking about doing. But did he really _want_ to go back there after all that had happened those last months? Would he be able to sit in the Great Hall and eat breakfast or take a stroll outside on the grounds, after all he had witnessed there the week before? Visit the Room of Requirement without shuddering in recollection at the students' desperate flight to its security? Pass the walls of the halls without remembering all the nights he, Ginny and Luna had snuck out to furtively decorate them with slogans of defiance.

And he definitely wasn't keen on sitting in the Defence again the Dark Arts classroom again: for him it would always be filled with the ghostly screams of his classmates writhing under the Cruciatus. How could he go back to that?

The bench in the corner beckoned in invitation and he made his way over to it absently, removing his dragon-hide gardening gloves and clutching them on his lap as he sat pondering his future.

If he didn't go back to school, what was he going to do? Should he move out? As an adult in the Wizarding world, his Gran couldn't object with any real authority, but Neville wasn't sure he was ready to fly the nest just yet or where he would go let alone what he would do. Maybe if he'd been Harry, he'd know what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. His friend would probably become an Auror - shoot right to the top of the trainees list after his defeat of Vo ... Vo ...

Bloody hell! The evil git was dead and he still couldn't say his name. He narrowed his eyes and mustered all the courage and determination that had seen him survive the last year unscathed (apart from the deep lacerations on his face). It was time to change that.

"Vol ... Vold -"

Neville was sweating slightly, but he refused to believe it was anything other than the climate-controlled greenhouse. Red with effort, he made one more valiant attempt...

_"Voldemort!"_

He gasped in surprise: He did it! He actually did it! Surveying his surroundings carefully to make sure he hadn't inadvertently summoned any remnant Death Eaters (and gripping his wand, just in case), he broke into a wide grin that tugged slightly on his still delicate scars.

"Voldemort! Voldemort!" The greenhouse remained - mercifully - Death Eater free, and Hogwarts' star Herbology pupil laughed in genuine delight as another shackle of the dark years freed him from its grasp.

He was so delighted with his success, that he abandoned his gloves, rushed past the now enormous Mimbulus Mimbletonia and exited the greenhouse, making a mad dash towards the house. Gran was enjoying tea in the living room while listening to the merry tones of Celestina Warbeck singing her new tune _Hit Me With Your Wizard Stick_ (celebrating He Who Must Not Be Named's demise at the end of what he thought was his own wand). The cup she held smashed onto the floor as the elderly witch flew out of her chair in shock at his noisy arrival.

"Gran! Listen: Voldemort!" He grinned triumphantly at her as she clutched her at heart. " Did you hear that? _Voldemort._ Voldemort, Voldemort, Voldem -"

"Neville Longbottom, cease that racket immediately!" she gasped.

"But Gran, I said his name -"

"I am aware of that young man. What do you expect from me? A Chocolate Frog?"

His good mood evaporated instantly, making his grandmother regret her hasty words. "I'm very proud of you, Neville; you know that, don't you?" she asked upon resuming her seat (and normal sinus rhythm).

"Yes Gran," he replied monotonously, not convinced.

"Don't stand there like a Muggle visitor: take a seat, boy," she ordered briskly and waved her wand in the direction of the coffee table. Two more teacups appeared and the eager teapot emptied some of its contents into them. Handing one to Neville, the sprightly woman leaned back in her chair and took a comforting sip of the fragrant liquid.

"Now, I have the feeling that you're not entirely convinced of my pride, but I am and you must accept that, whether you believe it or not. However," she frowned at him disapprovingly from her seat, "that is no excuse to come racing into the house like you're being chased by a swarm of Amorous Bumblebees. I did not survive two wars merely to meet my demise a week later at the clarion call of an over-excited teenager."

He flushed, adequately repentant.

"On the other hand," she said primly, "it is a very good thing that you find yourself able to mutter the nutter's name."

Neville grinned at her choice of words and she allowed a smile to dance briefly around her own thin lips. "Drink up, drink up. That's my best brew, you know. Your father used to enjoy a cup with me before retiring to bed when he was home from school."

This was old news to Neville, but he humoured her by taking a healthy sip, glad to share a common ritual with his father. "What about Mum?" he asked after swallowing the dark brew. "Did she ever come over and share an evening cuppa before going to bed?"

"She most certainly did not!" exclaimed Gran, eyes widening at the thought. "A teenage girl, stay overnight under the same roof as a hormonal boy? Not in my house! Your mother was far too sensible to suggest such a thing, even if it ever did cross her mind. You know very well they never stayed here together before they were married."

He rolled his eyes. "I mean _after_ that. They must have stayed overnight once or twice after their wedding."

Gran frowned once more. "Good heavens, boy; are you suggesting I allowed them to run about my house performing acts of carnal lust?"

Neville almost spat his tea out. Yuck! He really didn't want _that_ particular image floating about in his mind, although Gran's expression at the mere idea was very amusing.

"So that's a 'no' then?"

"Yes, Neville, that is a very definite 'no'." She busied herself with adding more sugar to her tea, but he knew she was still flustered because she did it by hand, instead of waving her wand. "However, your mother and I did, on occasion, enjoy an afternoon at Florian Fortescue's. Very fond of lemon and lime sorbet, she was. A Muggle dessert, I believe, but then, she had Muggle-born friends who introduced her to some of their customs. I even tried it once myself - very refreshing on the palate. Those Muggles know a thing or two about desserts, there's no denying it."

One benefit of having lived up to her expectations of him, was that Gran was more readily willing to share a nugget of his parents' past with him. Somehow, the advent of Voldemort's death had loosened her tongue slightly, meaning that in the last week he had learned the most unexpected things about two of St Mungo's long-term patients. They were slowly becoming more to him than drooling representatives of the Aurors he was so proud of.

But he learned no more of them that evening as they sat together in companionship enjoying their tea, and the conversation turned to the day's earlier event: Fred Weasley's funeral.

"Molly and Arthur are holding up admirably well," Gran commented, reaching for a chocolate biscuit. Taking a bite, she chewed thoughtfully. "Poor George, on the other hand, is devastated. Understandable of course - losing a twin sibling must be rather like losing an arm and a leg. Or a son and a daughter-in-law."

The allusion to her personal pain made Neville raise his head in surprise: Gran was rarely so open about her feelings.

"You did a very good thing today, Neville Longbottom," she remarked as she toyed with her biscuit. "Those words you shared with Molly Weasley in Ronald's room made me very proud of you."

She took another bite of the sweet treat to prevent any further emotional outbursts, leaving him mentally reeling. Merlin's beard! That was at least the third time today she'd said she was proud of him. He didn't quite know what to do with that information, so he sipped on his rapidly cooling beverage and pretended it hadn't happened. But inside, he was glowing with happiness.

Placing her now empty cup on the table, Gran scowled at him half-heartedly. "Well, then. What are you about, keeping me up so late? It's time for me to get my beauty sleep, you know. And don't even think about laughing at that or I'll hex you into next week."

She rose and walked over to him, placing a perfunctory kiss on his forehead. "Good night, Neville. Be a dear and see to the cups before you turn in for the night - there's nothing worse than the stench of old tealeaves first thing in the morning."

With that, she retired, leaving him with a lot to ponder: and not realising he had completely forgotten his worry about what he was going to do with the rest of his life.

**XXX**

That night as he lay sleeping in bed, Neville found himself caught in the most peculiar dream he'd ever had. A huge mountain came sailing into view with a grand, white building sitting at its peak. He flew? floated? inside it to find large, airy halls and elegant columns twined with ivory leaf. Further inside was a spacious room, ethereal with glowing light. A sense of peace and harmony pervaded the air.

On an elegant green settle, there sat a woman of such outstanding beauty that his sleeping mind stalled in wonder. Porcelain skin, ruby lips, shining hair. Was that a Veela? Oh no! He was dreaming about Fleur Delacour Weasley - Bill would kill him! And he had _tried_ to avoid her at the funeral, too! Not because he didn't like her, but because he wasn't immune to her feminine charms (Gran had balked when he walked up to her late in the afternoon and offered her a cutting of his Mimbulus Mimbletonia. She'd hauled him off by his ear, providing the Weasleys with one of the few laughs they'd had that day).

But wait ... why was he remembering the funeral with such clarity? Was he controlling his dream? He stuck his hands out experimentally, attempting to manoeuvre himself to the left, like Muggle children did when they played at being an - oh, what was that flying thing, again? - an _air-a-plain_, but met with no success. He found himself being pulled inexorably towards the Veela on the settle and finally deposited before her.

"Greetings, Neville, son of Longbottom," she said in a silky voice (but nice silky, he realised, not like that git Snape). "I have yearned to meet thee for some time now, since I saw thee at thy day of liberation."

Neville shook his head to clear his ears. This was the oddest dream he had ever had. She didn't talk like any Veela he'd ever met before, even Fleur - Frenchwoman that she was - didn't go around spouting words like 'thee', 'thy' or 'yearn' (although who knew? She might use that last one with Bill every now and again).

"Take thy place at my side and allow me to summon refreshments," said the stunning female and, like Ron at a Cannons' match, he couldn't sit down fast enough.

"Er, am I dreaming?" he squeaked, before clearing his throat and aiming for a deeper, more manly, tone. "I mean, is this a dream?"

Tinkling laughter filled the air, and he thought the sound of it was better than any daft Warbeck tune.

"Nay, child. Thy form reposes in thine own bed in the world thou hast departed, yet still it sits here beside me, glowing as red as a midsummer's rose."

Well, that was just brilliant. He was blushing so furiously that she felt she had to comment on it! Not even _he_ could dream such embarrassing detail. It must be real. But wait a minute; hadn't she just said something that sounded suspiciously like ...

"D'you mean I'm lying dead in my bed back home? Gran'll kill me! We just made it through a war and now I've gone and died on her for no reason!" Panic surged through him at the thought of his grandmother trying to rouse him in the morning, only to find him as recently departed as Tom Marvolo Riddle.

The Veela-woman smiled at him, which made him feel instantly better.

Gran would get over it.

"Lay thy worries aside, young Wizard. Thy life stretches before thee still and blissful shall it be," she said in reassurance.

Blissful? Brilliant!

"Oh, well, that's alright then. Wouldn't like to upset my Gran. She's had it bad enough as it is, you see."

As if summoned by non-verbal magic, another woman, a maid perhaps, came into the room and left a silver tray with two glasses on a white stand. Bowing at them both, the gorgeous woman departed and Neville wondered if he hadn't perhaps struck teenaged-boy gold with the world's best-ever Veela dream.

More laughter followed directly after this thought and he panicked. Merlin's wand, was she a Legilimens?

"Thy thoughts are clear on thy youthful face, child. I am Varda, a Vala of this world."

Vala, Veela. Sounded the same. Her effect was the same. He wondered absently if she needed a supply of Stinksap. The Mimbulus Mimbletonia could easily afford to part with another cutting.

Varda glowed at him. She actually _glowed_ at him. Even Fleur couldn't do _that_, he thought happily. He yawned, suddenly tired and she handed him a glass of sparkling liquid.

"Miruvor, Master Longbottom. It will refresh thee after thy long journey."

What long journey? He'd only went to bed an hour ago. Not wanting to offend the angelic beauty, he lifted the glass to his lips and took a long swallow. Of course, she could've asked him to drink a gallon of the Draught of Living Death and he would have happily complied, but fortunately the Mirror-vor was sweet, refreshing and delicious and Neville felt instantly more alert.

"Before I explain to thee thy presence here, my husband will join us with thy Guardian."

Husband? Neville was crushed. Typical, really. Ginny had swanned off with Harry and Hermione would soon discover the joys of a future filled with red-haired children of her own. Now the best-looking woman he'd ever met had just told him she was rebuffing his advances for some unknown rival? He was desperate to take a sniff at his underarms, convinced a terrible case of body odour must be repelling all the females that caught his eye, when a familiar voice penetrated his mist of despondency.

"Can someone please kindly explain to me what on _earth_ is happening?"

He swivelled his head towards the sound of familiarity and didn't quite see the owner at first because a tall man in blue with _really_ long hair was blocking his view. But the man - his lost love's husband, he supposed jealously - stepped out of the way to reveal none other than ...

"_Mrs Weasley?_" he gasped.

"Neville, dear!" She rushed towards him, oblivious of the stately beings, and threw her arms around him in another of those wonderful motherly hugs, before stepping back, placing her hands on her hips and demanding of him: "Now, dear, tell me: what in the name of Merlin is going on here!"

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Author's Note:_ Okay folks, this chapter marks the start of the tale proper, and I've made it relatively long for you, so a review on what you thought would be delightfully received ;) This is where things get tricky though - the mixing of two different universes. For example, JRRT spells 'wizard' with a capital 'W', I believe, whereas JKR uses a lower case one (unless referring to the Wizarding World) - so don't be surprised if you spot some (hopefully few) errors in my attempts to make that somehow gel. I've never written several of the characters before (the Valar and several other Lotr characters, Molly, Elphias Doge) so I hope I don't disappoint you with my efforts.

I know that taking Molly from her grieving family may seem a bit harsh, but that will make a bit more sense as the story unfolds.

Byee,

Kara's Aunty :o)


	4. Tales of Woe and Wonder

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. and Lord of the Rings and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

**Credit: **www dot hp-encyclopedia dot com and www dot Tuckborough dot net.

**Please note that this tale is _completely_ AU. There may be wild discrepancies between what I write and what the Valar are actually capable of, but that is my (ahem) 'artistic' licence in action. If anyone finds this story or the characters in it implausible (although it's all fiction, really), just hit the 'back' button at the top of the screen, I won't be offended ;o)**

**Not Quite A Maia **

**Chapter 4**

To say that Neville was surprised to see Ron's and Ginny's mum in the grand white hall, would be like saying his grandmother had just passed the first flush of her youth. Now, as he watched her standing before him in her long, fluffy nightgown, with her hands glued firmly to her hips, he fervently hoped that he _wasn't_ asleep - because if he was having some sort of pervy dream about the middle-aged mother of his school friends, he'd have no choice but to stay awake for the rest of his life.

Varda embraced her husband (as he watched jealously) then turned to Mrs Weasley. "I am Varda, Vala of the world known as Arda. I bid thee welcome, Molly, daughter of Prewett."

"Yes, dear, that's all very well and good; but where am I? And why is Neville here, too? What do you want with us?" demanded the agitated witch. Varda's husband guided her into a chair and gently forced her to take a seat.

The gorgeous Vala-Veela hailed a servant (the same stunner from earlier) and whispered something in her ear. Neville sat back down. He was feeling a bit self-conscious now, actually: with Mrs Weasley's untimely appearance in her nightgown, he was more aware of his own apparel - green pyjamas that Gran bought him for Christmas last year, which were covered in tiny figures of combating Aurors (she lived in hope). When the maid returned, she placed two more glasses of the Mirror-vor liquid in front of Mrs Weasley and Varda's husband, then handed both guests a warm shawl to spare their blushes.

Mrs Weasley was obviously touched by the considerate gesture, though even as she draped it over her shoulders, she repeated her earlier demand. It elicited a startling reply from Varda.

"My beloved, Manwë, and I," she began, indicating the elegant male Vala sitting next to the stout witch, "have called young Master Longbottom here in order to make a request of him. If he agrees to this request, we shall then make one of thyself, Lady Molly."

Lady Molly? Mrs Weasley was thrown off guard by the elegant form of address, allowing Varda to continue.

"The world of Middle Earth, in which ye may soon find thyselves, is many years in the past of thine own time. At present, it is troubled by a great war, and - not unlike the one thy people have recently experienced - the instigator is a most evil being. A dark Maia, seeking to overthrow the lands and cover them in Shadow, much as thine own Dark Lord did attempt in thy world."

"Er, sorry, but what's a Maia?" interrupted Neville.

Manwë explained: "A Maia is a powerful being whose original purpose was to aid the Valar in our works of worthiness throughout the lands. But Sauron the Abhorrent was corrupted by the great enemy Morgoth. After his master's fall, Sauron became the dominant evil in the lands of the West. He seeks to crush all the Free Peoples of the world under his rule, and to that end his servants now encroach upon the lands of Men and other races in order to bring them under his dominion."

Neville gripped his glass tightly. Another Dark Lord? Well, that was just bloody brilliant! But what did they want _him_ to do about it? Now, if this 'Middle Earth' place was suffering from an infestation of ruddy big snakes, then he was the one to talk to! But megalomaniac wizards? Harry was the one they should be having a cosy chat with regarding that - that boy was invincible!

"I think there's been some sort of a mistake," Neville said, before his host could continue with further explanation. The teenager had heard enough already. Both Valar regarded him with solemn eyes and he swallowed heavily.

"Look, I may be a wizard, but that doesn't mean I'm the best wizard for the job - whatever the job is. You need someone who's done this sort of thing before, not me. I'm just ... Neville," he finished with an apologetic shrug.

Mrs Weasley's forehead crinkled in protest. "There's nothing wrong with being 'just Neville'."

He sighed. "But I'm not exactly Harry Potter or Professor Dumbledore, am I? I was eight years old before I discovered I had any magic in me at all - and that only happened because Great Uncle Algie dropped me out the bedroom window and I went bouncing down the street ..."

"Your uncle did _what_!" cried the redhead, leaping to her feet and surveying the room murderously (as if Uncle Algie was lurking in the shadows of the Valar's home). Fortunately for the old man, he wasn't. Neville ignored her outburst and ploughed on.

"... and even so, I'm not exactly powerful. Bloody hell, if there hadn't been a war, I'd still be trying to work out exactly what a Shield Charm is, and any bright first-year can do that!" he declared.

"Language, dear!" exclaimed Mrs Weasley, retaking her seat.

"But there _was_ a war, son of Longbottom, and thou _hast_ thy magic harnessed," stated Varda serenely. "Furthermore, it was harnessed when thee still used the staff of thy father - an impressive feat in and of itself. And now that thou art in possession of thine own staff, it is greater still. Do not allow doubt to fill thy heart when thy spirit has already proven its worth."

Staff? Did she mean wand? Oh no; his wand was still in his room! He _definitely_ wouldn't be able to help them now.

But Varda didn't seemed too bothered by that for the moment, so he sealed his lips firmly together and let her continue.

"My husband has told thee of the desperate plight faced by the Free Peoples of Middle Earth, Master Longbottom. What thou dost not yet know, is that we have sent opponents of Sauron among them to aid with their struggle. For thousands of years, they have walked the lands across the Sundering Sea; gathering information, and creating alliances between the races to fight the evil of the Dark Lord Sauron. One such Maia was Olórin - Gandalf the Grey, as he was known to Men in his Wizard form - wisest of all the Maiar.

"Gandalf it was who led a desperate Quest to defeat the Lord of Mordor. Among his Fellowship in this Quest are Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Isildur's Heir, and also the Hobbit, Frodo Baggins, who carries a mighty weapon that the Dark Lord forged to aid his own evil ascent to power. Sauron lost this golden trinket when his form was destroyed by Isildur many thousands of years ago, and the One Ring was sundered from him at that time. But it has now been discovered by others, and he has been slowly regaining his former strength. He is almost strong enough to take shape again. Sauron's dark servants now seek his Ring of Power to return it to him, and thus deliver him dominion over Middle Earth. Such is the peril of Arda! If the Dark Lord Sauron comes into possession of his Ring of Power once again, the lands of the West and beyond will fall."

Neville gulped loudly. This 'Sauron' sounded even worse than Voldemort! Lost his form? Strong enough to regain it?

"Are you saying that this Dark Lord of yours sort of ... died. And now he's coming back to life?"

"Indeed," confirmed Manwe. Mrs Weasley turned pale.

"And this ring of his - this 'One Ring' - will give him back a body?" enquired the wide-eyed teenager.

"That is so," replied his romantic rival.

This was all sounding horribly familiar. Sauron's ring must be like Voldemort's Horcruxes. And Gandalf's Fellowship was trying to destroy it, much as Harry, Ron and Hermione had set out to destroy them. But the Fellowship was not without casualties, if the way the Valar kept referring to Gandalf in the past tense was any indication. Was that why they needed him? Crikey, they really should have asked for Harry! He was the Horcrux expert.

A sudden, awful thought occurred to him.

"Wait a minute: you called it the 'One' Ring. Are there others?" he asked in growing horror.

Varda answered. "The One Ring was forged in secret by the Dark Lord to rule over many. He filled it with his evil will and malice. The others; the Nine Rings of Men and the Seven Rings of the Dwarves, he aided in the creation of by deceiving the Elven-smiths as to their true purpose. These three Elven Rings, which, although not fashioned by Sauron himself, were created using knowledge he furnished the Firstborn with. This renders them as susceptible to his sway as the rest. If Sauron reclaims his own Ring he will rule over the bearers of the remaining Dwarven and Elven Rings."

"What about the Nine Rings of Men?" asked Mrs Weasley curiously. "Are their bearers too powerful for him?"

A bitter laugh from Manwë greeted this question and she frowned at him.

"Nay, they are not too powerful for him, for he has already enslaved their bearers! They are now the Ring-wraiths, and they dwell tormented in Shadow; neither living nor dead. These former kings of Men lead the Dark Lord's armies; they are a foul group of spirits who roam the lands searching for their master's prize, and they will slay its bearer when they find him."

Well, _they_ didn't sound very pleasant. Neville hoped that poor Frodo was hiding as far from the Ring-wraiths as he could possibly get. Speaking of which ...

"Where are this Frodo-hobbit and his friends now? If Gandalf is dead, who's leading them?" he asked, desperately hoping they weren't going to suggest that _he_ should. Where was he supposed to lead them to?

"Most likely they are now under the guidance of Aragorn, he has led them to the Elven haven of Lothlórien for respite from their trials."

"Oh, you have house-elves here too, do you?" asked Mrs Weasley, happy to find a subject familiar to her. "They're very handy in the kitchen. Not that _I've_ ever needed one - my kitchen is my kingdom, you know! Never trust a stranger's hand among your ingredients - even a helping one; you never know what they might put into your stew!"

Both Valar looked slightly confused at the Weasley matriarch's nugget of domestic wisdom, though Neville understood her well. Thank goodness Hermione hadn't been the one to come here with him - if she knew there were house-elves in a place called Middle Earth as well, she wouldn't rest until the Free Peoples of the West had been kitted out with S.P.E.W. badges and roamed the streets with giant, paint-daubed placards protesting their treatment.

Tearing his thoughts from S.P.E.W., he gave the Valar his full attention. "So what will happen to them now?" he asked. "What are they going to do with this Ring?"

His beautiful hostess answered. "The Fellowship shall journey to the black lands of Mordor. There is the home of Sauron, and birthplace of the One Ring. And there Frodo must see it destroyed, if it does not consume him first."

Consume? Did the ruddy thing have teeth? Good grief, these Middle Earth lot were worse than some of the idiots back home! What were they all about anyway, making an evil ring with teeth?

The look of confusion on his face elicited elaboration from Varda. "The One Ring, imbued with the power of the Dark Lord Sauron, has a will of its own. It will trick its bearer; deceive him into believing he is powerful enough to wield it. And all in an effort to return to its master. If the bearer falls to its deceptions and places the Ring on his finger, he may become invisible to all others, but he will enter a half-world of Shadow where the Ring-wraiths and the Eye of Sauron may perceive him more easily. His capture will be imminent, and death shall follow swiftly before the Black Riders return the Ring of Power to their master." Her eyes closed briefly, before she said: "The destruction of all that is good and pure shall follow this."

Mrs Weasley clucked her tongue in sympathy. "This all sounds very bad indeed. But what exactly is it you want Neville to do? Destroy the Ring?"

A valid question, thought Neville. He didn't find the idea of a trek to the black lands of this Mordor place very fetching. Why hadn't Gandalf just put a spell on the Ring to break its power? That would have taken care of everything nicely.

"The One Ring cannot be destroyed by the magicks or spells of Wizard-kind, Lady Molly; only casting it back into the fires of Mount Doom where it was created may see it ruined. This alone shall bring the downfall of its creator, Sauron," Manwë informed her. "My wife would like to make a different request of Master Longbottom."

Well, thank goodness for that! No filthy trek through foreign lands to chuck a bit of gold into a fire while being chased by sort-of-dead Black Riders. Neville felt a bit more confident. He was a bit annoyed, though, that the (really _far_ too pretty) man addressed Mrs Weasley as 'Lady Molly' while he got stuck with 'Master Longbottom' as if he was some twelve-year-old pure-blood brat.

Of course, Varda had _also_ addressed him as 'Master Longbottom', but Neville was perfectly happy to let her call him whatever she wanted. He'd even answer to 'Widebottom' if _she_ said it.

Turning to the beautiful woman, he smiled at her politely and asked: "What can I do for you, then, Mrs Varda?"

She laughed merrily at his form of address and his smile grew wider. Thank goodness Gran wasn't here either to see him behave like the hormonal teenager he was.

"I would ask thee to replace Gandalf as Wizard of the Fellowship."

Oh. Bloody. Hell. A jaunt to Mordor after all.

"They require the security thy power may provide, young Wizard."

"But I'm really not that good!" he protested in frustration, his good humour forgotten. "Unless you're looking for a herbologist, that is. That was my best subject in school - although I'm not sure I'll be able to ward off these Ring-wraiths with nothing more than a bunch of Honking Daffodils."

He paused, lost in thought for a second. "Of course, a nice bit Stinksap may get rid of them for a while. They won't be able to follow anyone too effectively if you can smell them a mile off. We could use it as a sort of warning signal."

"Neville, dear, do be serious! You can't spray the undead with Stinksap and honestly expect it to keep them at bay for very long!"

Perhaps she had a point. Still, it was something to think about ...

"Gandalf the Grey was more than just a Wizard to the Fellowship child; he was also a counsellor. He united them and gave guidance. But alas! He fell after slaying the Balrog of Moria, and has not returned to us since," lamented Varda.

"Excuse me, dear," interrupted Mrs Weasley, "Balrock?"

"_Balrog_," corrected Manwë. "'Twas a mighty creature of great stature, not unlike a great lizard in appearance..."

Neville perked up at that. A snake was a lizard - he could deal with a mere snake.

"... but possessed of long legs and powerful arms. Balrogs were demons of shadow and flame, creatures of great power and terror. Cloaked in shifting shadows, with fiery cores, they had burning yellow eyes and streaming manes that kindled with fire. Foul and evil they were, and perhaps still are; for none are certain of the number unleashed on Middle Earth by Morgoth and some may yet exist in the dark places of the world. As we have so recently discovered!"

Okay, definitely _not_ a snake, then. He hoped they weren't expecting him to duel with one of these ... Balrog-thingys - he didn't imagine they'd be as accommodating as Nagini by foolishly allowing him to hack their heads off.

His hostess continued with her narration. "Gandalf the Grey, although victorious against the dark creature, met his own demise. As a Maia, his spirit was free to wander the mysteries of Time and Space. My husband has called out to his spirit, for Olórin's duty is not yet over and the Fellowship require his leadership still. Yet he does not answer!"

Her grey eyes met his wide ones. "That is where thee may be of assistance, Neville Longbottom. Thou hast already proven thyself in battle against great evil. Thou art a leader of armies in thine own world; a valiant defender of the cause of righteousness."

"No!" declared Mrs Weasley suddenly. Shaking off Manwë's arm, the horrified witch rose and crossed over to the female Vala. She waggled a finger in the lovely woman's face. "I will not allow it! He is a boy of seventeen, for goodness' sake! He's not long out of a war he should never have experienced, let alone participated in."

"I understand thy concern, daughter of Prewett," replied Varda. "But he is of age in thy world. The son of Longbottom must be allowed to make his own decision."

The stout witch was having none of it. Neville watched in shock as she ranted and raved at what was surely a very powerful woman indeed, if she could take them both from the safety of their beds and whisk them away through Time and Space just to ask a favour.

"Look at him!" demanded the motherly witch. "Look at his face! Do you see those scars? Do you know how he got them? Standing up to the sort of tyranny you would like to thrust him into again! Subjected to a curse of horrible agony that left him wriggling on the ground while sharp objects sliced through his skin. The same curse that has seen his parents languishing in their own private hell for most of his life! Not to mention the burning hat _our_ Dark Lord saw fit to pull over his head!"

She was puce with righteous anger and Neville could only gape at her. "And you would subject him to such a thing again? No! He has fought his war, let him have his peace! Merlin knows he deserves it. We all do ..."

A sob escaped her lips. Varda rose elegantly and swiftly enfolded the distressed witch in her warm embrace. "I know what haunts thee, Lady Molly. Thine own son departed his life not long before thy journey here began. His loss grieves thee deeply. Know that I ache for thy sorrow."

Neville had a lump of his own in his throat just listening to the heart-wrenching cries of pain.

"Thy grief drives thee to cling fast to those who remain, and to protect the innocent as thee believe thou should have protected thy son. But not even a Witch of great power may see all ends, or be in all places at once. Thy Fred may have left thee for now, yet mortal coils are brief and thou shall know the happiness of reunion with him one day soon."

Her delicate hand tipped the sobbing witch's chin up, forcing her to meet her eyes. "I swear to thee that thy son is safe and well, and that thou shalt hold him again in thine arms. Do not despair, my Lady."

Mrs Weasley's sobs subsided markedly: she seemed to be strangely comforted by these words. But Neville wondered how the Vala could possibly know _how_ Fred was doing, or that he _was_ safe and happy. Had she seen him?

Varda gently kissed Mrs Weasley's forehead, then pulled her down onto the green settle to sit beside her, forcing the teenager to move up. She took the witch's hands in her own and held her gaze. "But know that Neville Longbottom is not thy son, even though thy mother's heart calls out to him. We know what he has endured in his short years, and would not see him inflicted with further pain if it were possible. Yet you must understand that desperate times require desperate measures."

Manwë now addressed Neville directly. "I was not wholly convinced that thy participation in this Quest would be of worth, for these are serious matters. But my beloved claims thee to have a fortitude and integrity rare in children of Men so young - even if they be gifted with the art of Wizardry. She believes thy courage inspired followers at thy place of learning, and that thee did not falter when death and domination loomed in thy face. I have seen with my own eyes the truth of the latter. Yet still I am hesitant to accept thee, for thou art young and potentially open to influence from outside forces."

Neville burned with embarrassment and indignation, but wisely kept his mouth shut, in case an unlucky remark from it shattered his beautiful champion's illusions.

"Dost thou renounce the forces of evil, child?" demanded the grave voice of the male Vala.

Of course he bloody well did! Hadn't he spent the last few years proving that? He set his jaw and firmly nodded his agreement.

"Speak thine answer aloud, child, that I may hear the truth in thy voice."

_If you insist ..._

"Of course I ruddy well do!" he declared, affronted.

"Language, dear!" squeaked Mrs Weasley, unable to stop herself. Varda smiled.

Neville flushed to his roots. Really, what did she expect? This long-haired lover from ... well, wherever they were, was questioning his integrity.

"And shall thee accept the charge of protecting the Fellowship?"

Hmm. That question needed a bit more thought. Would he accept the charge? He thought of his parents; lives ruined forever by the followers of a madman. His friends at Hogwarts - children, all of them - and yet many had fought for the right to control their own destiny. Many hadn't survived. He thought of the Wizarding World and the elation that swept it after Harry Potter had done the unimaginable and freed them all. He remembered the way things were before that happy day - the fear and suspicion that gripped the wizarding community as the death toll rose, friend betraying friend, and the apparent inevitability of Voldemort's victory as the social structures of his world slowly collapsed around him - and he shuddered.

If he could help in any way, did he really have the right to refuse? For all the doubts he harboured in his own skill as a wizard, certain facts could not be denied: he had fought back. He had enrolled in the DA and become one of the most improved Defence students there. His skills were not as novice as they used to be - so much so that he had become one of the DA's leaders when Harry couldn't come back for his seventh year.

And he could no more ignore a cry for help than he could happily arrive at Malfoy Manor for tea and cake with Draco.

And this _was_ a cry for help.

He made his decision.

"Yes. I accept the charge," stated Neville firmly. Mrs Weasley gasped in dismay.

"But, Neville; what about your grandmother? She'll not be very pleased when she finds out you've gone gallivanting into another war. And what if you get hurt? Please, dear, think about what that would do to her!"

He looked at the matronly witch and saw the worry in her eyes. But he was determined. "I _am_ thinking about Gran. If she knew someone asked me for help but I refused, she'd be disappointed. I'd never be able to look her in the face again. I love my Gran, Mrs Weasley, and I won't do anything to make her look at me as if she's ashamed of me. And how _can_ I say no when my own parents sacrificed themselves to fight the same kind of monster that threatens them now?" He shook his head. "_I'd _never be able to look at _myself_ again!"

Mrs Weasley pulled her hand from Varda's and moved over to him, grasping his shoulders firmly. "You don't have to do this because you scared to let people down, Neville. You could never disappoint those who really love you!"

"No, Mrs Weasley. It's not about that. It's about doing what's right. Why should the peoples of their world suffer when there's even the smallest thing I can do to help? Look, I lived with my own insecurities for far too long before my fifth year at school. But that night, in the Department of Mysteries, I wasn't scared any more, and - to tell you the truth - I haven't been since. Oh, I know I'll never be as great a wizard as Professor Dumbledore, or even Harry, but that doesn't matter any more. I'm not that bad with a wand now, actually, and several Death Eaters I've met would be happy to agree with that, if they weren't either dead or in Azkaban, that is. Now these Valar are a wizard short and they've asked for my help. It's my duty and my privilege to do as they ask."

Her lips pursed and her complexion became rosier with every word, but there was nothing Neville could do about that. He was touched that she felt so concerned for his safety, but it was his choice: he was his own man now.

"I forbid it!" she declared, and he smiled fondly.

"You can't."

"Neville Longbottom, when your grandmother hears about this ..."

"Mrs Weasley," he said gently, "there's nothing she can do either. I _am_ of age."

"But Neville dear, you'll be stranded in this foreign world and she'll have no idea where you are or when you'll be back - or _if _you'll even be back."

"Time for him shall be but a moment to her, for it shall be as if he were gone mere seconds, at most," came the reassuring tones of Varda. The Vala-Veela's face shone with pride at her Chosen One's acceptance.

"Seconds, you say?" asked Molly in disbelief.

"Seconds," confirmed Manwë, knowing that she would not now have to be asked to become the Guide: her decision was clear on her face.

And indeed, the witch's expression had changed - to one of absolute determination. Even Neville now knew what she was planning. "No, absolutely not, Mrs Weasley! You have a family back home - they need you!"

"I'm not going _anywhere _until I can take you back with me," she said in challenge. "Whatever would I say to Augusta if I left you here and something happened, hmm? Who'll look out for you when you're too busy looking out for everybody else? Tell me that!"

Well, of course, he couldn't. He didn't know what was going to happen, or where he was going, and he had absolutely no idea what he would do when he got there. But these things tended to take care of themselves when the time came, right?

Mrs Weasley had the smuggest look on her face when he couldn't answer and Neville would swear that she was almost enjoying it. But he couldn't let her come too. He wouldn't be able to live with himself if she got hurt watching his back.

"Look Mrs Weasley, what if something happened to you? I_ really_ hate to say this, but your family has already lost a son. They can't lose their mother, too. It would destroy them. Take it from someone who knows."

Her lower lip wobbled and he could have happily Crucio-ed himself for doing that to her, but there was nothing else for it.

"Now you listen to me, young man," she said, swallowing heavily, "I am more than capable of defending not only myself, but others as well if I have too - something I believe that I have sufficiently proven."

He couldn't argue with that. Bellatrix Lestrange was probably cursing the matronly witch from whatever corner of hell she currently occupied.

"And _your_ life has not been destroyed, dear, however painful it's been to this moment; so don't shame your grandmother's excellent efforts by claiming otherwise ..."

Wow, that was embarrassing! Being scolded like a naughty five-year-old by a raging Weasley in front of the most beautiful woman he'd ever clapped eyes on. And Ron's mum had a valid point: those Black Riders wouldn't so much as get the _chance_ of taking a shot at him if Gran thought he was disparaging her child-rearing skills.

"... and furthermore, I have been around a lot longer than you have, dear. I know spells and curses that would make your toes curl, and I am more than able to pass that knowledge on to you. You might certainly need it if things are as bad here as the nice lady says!"

All very valid points. But he was still hesitant to let her accompany him. His gaze met Manwë's. "Could you give me some sort of guarantee that no harm would come to her?" he asked.

"I am not a child, young man!" declared the affronted witch. "And if he can guarantee that for me, then he can certainly guarantee it for you!"

Manwë beckoned his wife to join him and Neville's eyes followed them both as they retreated to the archway leading out of the room. He felt Mrs Weasley's gaze burning into him and thought it was probably safer not to turn around. How did Ron manage this on a daily basis?

Luckily, he didn't have to bear her accusatory glare for long. Within seconds the Valar returned and Varda spoke. "Already thou hast impressed upon my husband thy worthiness, son of Longbottom. Thy careful deliberation of our request for aid shows thy wisdom, and the arguments which supported thy choice were spoken with conviction. That thee now think of the safety of thy companion, and the well-being of her kin before thyself, demonstrates thy compassion."

Neville's face burned with embarrassment, and he desperately wished they would just get to the point.

Manwë obliged his unspoken request. "It will not be possible for us to secure the safety of ye both, yet thy wizardry is of a kind uncommon to us and should stand ye in good stead."

What? That wasn't what he wanted to hear! Right, that was it: if they couldn't at least keep Mrs Weasley safe, then they could find some other good-natured sap to risk their neck for the greater good.

"However," said Varda, "it is within our power to grant at least _thy_ request, son of Longbottom."

The Vala stepped towards an astonished Mrs Weasley and - before the witch could so much as open her mouth to protest - laid a hand on her shoulder. A brief, shimmering light enveloped the redhead before dissipating. It left behind no obvious sign that it had ever existed other than a simple silver chain which now hung around her neck. A white stone sparkled brilliantly at its centre.

"The Light of Varda protects thee now, daughter of Prewett. No harm shall befall thee in thy travels. But I warn thee: do not remove it until thy quest is complete! To do so may be to plunge thyself into darkest despair."

Manwë now addressed Neville. "Does this soothe thy mind, young Wizard?"

The teenager smiled in satisfaction as Ron's mum spluttered in outrage. "That's brilliant, thanks!"

"Just one moment," interjected the matronly witch, "why can't you do the same for Neville?"

"The Light of Varda is taken from my wife's own essence. To take too much would be to weaken her and to plunge the world into darkness. The jewel on thy breast is but a temporary gift. It must be returned upon completion of thy duties - to lose it would be catastrophic. Use what magic thou hast to ensure that it remains with ye both for the duration of thy time in Middle Earth."

"Oh," said Mrs Weasley, looking with some concern at the now paler form of Varda. Her husband's arm stole around the Vala's waist in support. "I see. Well, that was very nice of you, dear. Perhaps you should sit down. Would you like a nice cup of tea?"

Varda fairly glowed in appreciation of the motherly concern shown to her. "Thou art a summer's ray on a cloudy day, Lady Molly. A little Miruvor shall suffice for the moment." Her husband assisted her into a chair where she sipped delicately on a glass flute of the sparkling liquid.

"And now," Varda said, placing the glass back on its ivory stand, "ye must return to thy world for one day of Men only. Gather what may be required for a long journey through wilderness, and then return when ye next lay thine heads to rest. We shall have further instruction for ye both upon thy return."

Neville and Mrs Weasley stood up, unsure of where exactly they should go to return home. The issue was soon resolved when their bodies began to levitate and draw further away from the stately Valar.

"Do not forget thy staffs of power, son of Longbottom, daughter of Prewett. Fare ye well until we meet again."

And with that, they were gone.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Author's Note:_ Hope you're enjoying it! If you are, please leave a review as reward for all my hard work…

Thanks!

Kara's Aunty :)


	5. On Your Marks, Get Set, Go!

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. and Lord of the Rings and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

**Credit: **www dot hp-encyclopedia dot com and www dot Tuckborough dot net.

**Note:** This chapter amended to include Emily's correction (you know who you are) and dedicated to her for all the lovely reviews she has left me over the past few days! Thank you, m'dear. On a side note: Scotland & Britain use both 'Happy Christmas' and 'Merry Christmas' :o)

**Not Quite A Maia**

**Chapter 5**

The sound of his grandmother rapping smartly on the bedroom door drew Neville from his sleep the following morning.

"Neville? Wake up! We have a busy morning ahead of us."

He opened his bleary eyes and yawned widely. Was it morning already? She must be mistaken.

"Heavens, boy! Are you still sleeping? Wake up, I say!" Gran's increasing volume was enough to convince him that it was in fact morning; she never raised her voice between ten o'clock at night and seven the next day.

"I'm up, Gran," he called half-heartedly, pulling the sheets back over his head. Another five minutes ...

His eyes were just beginning to droop again when there was an almighty rattling at the doorknob.

"Don't make me come in there, Neville Longbottom. If you're not down for breakfast in ten minutes, I'll turn that overgrown cactus of yours into a Bashful Bonzai!"

Crikey, she'd do it too!

Her dire warning had him flying out of bed faster than Harry could zoom around a Quidditch pitch, and he banged his foot on the bedside table in his haste to pander to her wishes. He heard her harrumphing in satisfaction as she headed for the staircase while he hopped about on one leg nursing his throbbing toe.

It was not until he was brushing his teeth that Neville vaguely recalled the strange dream he'd experienced in the early hours. He'd woken up just after midnight with a sense of urgency and an inexplicable desire to talk with Mrs Weasley, of all people.

But what on earth had it been about? He'd forgotten soon afterwards (that happened sometimes) and had quickly fallen into an unsettled rest, with images of great fiery creatures and mysterious dark horsemen plaguing his dreams for the rest of the night.

Perhaps it was nothing.

Pulling on clean brown trousers and a crisp yellow shirt for their intended visit to Great Uncle Algie's, he descended the stairs and joined Gran at the breakfast table in the kitchen. She served him up a full English breakfast and a cup of tea, glaring at him disapprovingly as he yawned widely and gave her a bird's eye view of his half-chewed black pudding.

"Use your hands, for pity's sake. Are you trying to put me off my porridge?"

"I don't need my hands to yawn, you know; that's what my mouth's for," he muttered tiredly, not realising she'd heard.

"I am quite certain that I did not raise you to forget simple manners, like covering that enormous void in the middle of your face politely when you feel the need to demonstrate your fatigue."

Why couldn't she just say 'Please put your hand over your mouth when you yawn?' He couldn't help it that he was tired. In fact, it felt like he hadn't slept for a week, which was odd; he'd gone to bed not long after her.

Neville took a another bite of his pudding, trying to work out why he was so tired. Probably the emotional strain of the past week.

Well, the past _year_, actually. He hadn't had a good night's rest since before Dumbledore died, if truth be told. It wasn't easy mounting a rebellion and fighting a war.

"Bloody hell!" The fork fell from his hand as he recalled the strange dream he'd had earlier in the night: A gorgeous Veela. A love rival. Another Dark Lord and his vicious Horcrux-Ring. Mrs Weasley sobbing and waving her finger in his true love's face ...

"There's no need to take that tone, young man. It's only good manners to have consideration for other people's comfort, you know," said his grandmother sternly, glaring at him from over the top of her teacup.

"No, Gran, not that. It's my dream!" Neville said. But wait; it had been a dream, right? It wasn't _actually_ real, surely? "Mrs Weasley ..."

The sharp clatter of porcelain broke his musing. Neville raised his head to find his grandmother had lowered her cup and was watching him suspiciously. "You were dreaming about Molly Weasley?" the elderly witch asked with narrow eyes.

Oh, great. She thought he was a pervy mum-fancier. "No, Gran, I wasn't. Well, I mean, I _was_. But not in the way you think."

"Then in what way, young man?"

"Well," he began, wondering if he should tell her what might have happened. What if she didn't believe him? "I was floating through Time and Space in my pyjamas; then there was this Veela, then Mrs Weasley showed up in her nightgown, then another Veela came - but he was a man-Veela who was after my girlfriend ..."

"I have heard quite enough!" declared Mrs Longbottom, scandalised. "No more chocolate biscuits for _you _before bedtime!"

It was then he decided not to fully relate his 'dream' to her. There was no point really; if he was only going to be gone for a matter of seconds, as Varda claimed, he'd be back long before she had time to worry. And anyway, if it had only been the result of a restless sleep, he'd look like a raving idiot if he started spouting nonsense about burning lizards and dead riders. He needed to speak with Mrs Weasley and try to find out if she'd shared his 'vision' of the Valar.

Plus, it would save him the aggravation of a confrontation with his grandmother. Neville speared a fat sausage with his fork and took a healthy bite. Tomorrow, when he woke up, he'd know for certain if he'd been to this Middle Earth place or not, and by that time everything would be over anyway.

Yes, he'd tell her tomorrow.

But for today, it would be best to see if he could meet with Ron's mum. If they were both off for a trip through Time and Space in the wee small hours of that night, then they had some planning to do!

**XXX**

As it happened, Neville didn't have to plan the great escape from his trip to Uncle Algie's. The fireplace lit up with green flames before his grandmother could throw the Floo powder on it. Molly Weasley's tired face appeared before them, floating in the emerald light.

"Oh, good morning Augusta. I'm sorry to disturb you, but would it be possible for you to send Neville over this morning? Only I'm having some trouble with the, eh, garden gnomes, and all the children have popped over to the Ministry with Arthur, so there's no one to clear the little beggars away from the kitchen door."

His grandmother's face was a picture of surprise. She threw Neville a slightly puzzled glance as Mrs Weasley rambled on.

"I think perhaps little Luna's father spent too much time yesterday poking around their usual patch - trying to get himself bitten, no doubt. The silly man believes it's good luck or some such nonsense. Anyway," she paused for breath, smiling apologetically at Neville's grandmother for throwing her carefully planned outing into turmoil. "I wouldn't bother you with this, but George is still up in his room and, well, nothing I try at the moment will bring him out of it."

Neville's raised his brows. Blimey, she wasn't above a little emotional blackmail, was she?

And it worked too. "Of course, Molly!" declared Gran sympathetically. "No need to say any more. Trust that Lovegood man to bring his nonsense to other people's homes!" She shook her head rapidly in disgust at poor Luna's (probably innocent) father before thrusting Neville towards the fireplace.

"Well, off you go then. If you're finished before lunch, meet me at the Leaky Cauldron for a bite to eat. Molly, it would be lovely to see you there too - and bring George if he's feeling up to it. My treat."

Mrs Weasley smiled at her in gratitude and withdrew her head, allowing him to throw the grey powder in the now empty fireplace and be whisked off to the kitchen of the Burrow.

"Ah, there you are, dear. Lovely to see you." She gave him a brief hug and pushed him onto a chair in the otherwise deserted kitchen. "I'll make you a nice cup of tea first and then we can chat."

Did that mean she'd had the same dream as him and wanted to discuss their upcoming trip? Or was there really a multitude of angry gnomes in the garden trying to make a mad dash for the house?

His tea arrived (along with an enormous slice of ginger cake) and the mercifully fully-dressed witch took a seat across from him. She looked tired, he thought, as he sipped his brew. Her eyes were slightly red and she wrung her hands together on the tabletop. A difficult night, no doubt - as all the nights must have been for the family since Fred's death.

"Are you all right, Mrs Weasley?" Neville asked softly.

A faint smile crossed her lips and she quickly clamped both hands around her own mug of tea in order to cease their telltale display of anxiety. "Quite all right, dear. Now, I think you know why I really called you here." She spoke in hushed tones, even though there was no sign of anyone else in sight. "Do you remember what you dreamed about last night?"

Mrs Weasley's voice was slightly hesitant, embarrassed perhaps, as if she thought the enquiry might be considered highly unusual.

Which, of course, it would be - if he didn't know exactly what she was referring to.

"So you _were_ there!" he declared, and his hostess gave a deep sigh of relief.

"Thank goodness!" she said. "I thought perhaps I was going stark raving mad! When I woke up this morning, I wanted to call over to your house straight away, but Augusta would have had a fit if I flooed in to ask about your dreams at six o'clock in the morning!"

She took a grateful sip of tea, and Neville couldn't agree more. If Gran thought they were dreaming about each other, she'd send him off to deepest Mongolia until he'd 'sorted out the nonsense floating about in his head'. She might let the red-haired witch off the hook though, and just chalk it up to grief.

He toyed with his cake before speaking. "You don't have to come Mrs Weasley." She looked up in alarm, but he hurried on. "It's just that, well, I don't like the thought of you getting caught up in another conflict when you're still upset about ... I mean ... you need more time ..."

Oh, dear. She was glaring at him over her mug.

The young wizard took a deep breath and said what was on his mind. "I just hate the thought of all these battles we might face reminding you of what happened to Fred."

The red mug she'd been holding thumped on the table as she regarded him and Neville wondered how far away her hand actually was from her deadly wand.

"Now you listen here, young man," she said firmly, reminding him suddenly of his grandmother when she was about to go off into one of her lengthy diatribes. "I know that you're concerned for my well-being and heaven knows I appreciate it. But you seem to be forgetting two things. Firstly, everything I look at in this house reminds me of what I have lost. Every expression on my children's faces reminds me of a similar one on Fred's. I can't so much as walk up the stairs without remembering how I used to yell at him and his brother for the racket they made when concocting their products for the shop."

Her eyes misted.

"And I can't go out into the garden for some escape either, because there's the paddock where he used to play Quidditch." She motioned out the kitchen door with her head.

"Nor can I leave the Burrow and go elsewhere for relief, because all I get are pitying looks; all I hear are sympathetic words from well-meaning friends and shoppers in Diagon Alley - and that's before I even so much as pass their shop ..."

Neville sincerely wished he'd refrained from opening the 'large void in the middle of his face'. This was obviously painful for Mrs Weasley. But she rallied herself and sniffed back the threat of tears before continuing.

"And secondly -" she reached under her flowery pinafore and pulled out a dazzling pendant on a long, silver chain. "- don't forget I have something to protect myself with. Which is more than I can say for _you_!"

Crikey! Was she still annoyed about that?

"It doesn't sit very well with me that I have a free pass to safety, as it were, when we go to this Middle Earth, while you'll have to watch your back -"

Apparently, she _was_ still annoyed.

"- so if you think I'm letting you trundle off to some unknown place and time to do battle with people and creatures we've never heard of while I sleep safely in my bed, then you have another think coming! They _chose_ me to be your guardian, your guide, and that is _my_ duty and privilege."

With that, she picked up her mug and took a deep swallow, leaving Neville to smart at having his own words used against him.

"Sorry, Mrs Weasley. I didn't mean to upset you; I just, well, I wanted to give you the chance of bowing out gracefully, I suppose," he admitted, before cramming a large piece of cake into his mouth to prevent any further gaffes.

She smiled at him. "Well, dear, that was very gentlemanly of you. But it's been a long time since I've been able to bow, let alone do so gracefully. Anyway, a change of scenery for a short while, that has the added benefit of not _really_ taking me away from the family, might be good for me; give me time to concentrate on something other than ... well, something else."

The morning light bounced off the beautiful pendant on her neck and Mrs Weasley admired it. "Besides, I so rarely get the chance to do something different! I wasn't always a mother, you know. My brothers, Fabian and Gideon, were excellent Aurors, and I learned some very handy spells from them that I've never had the chance to use. It might be quite therapeutic to take some of my pent-up frustrations out on unsuspecting dark armies. Fred would certainly have enjoyed it. Maybe he still can, if the nice Vala lady is to be believed. So I musn't let him down."

They shared a conspiratorial grin.

"Right then; enough of all that. We have some planning to do!" she declared.

And with that, any doubts or reservations that Neville may have harnessed about leading her into danger were finally laid to rest.

For two hours they discussed what they may need to bring with them to Middle Earth. Having no real idea of the terrain they would encounter, Mrs Weasley thought it best to bring a knapsack treated with an Extension Charm. Into it, she crammed (among other things): two tents, a magical first aid kit, a sewing kit (which made Neville laugh), several changes of clothing, two large boxes of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes (which made her eyes moisten), and enough food to sustain a starving village for a week (including ingredients for a Sunday roast complete with Yorkshire pudding; his favourite). Also packed were knitting needles and wool ("For the quieter moments," she explained to an astonished Neville), Millicent Beneficent's _Cookery On The Go: A Witch's Guide To Camping In The Wild, _and_ Shock and Auror: Astound your Enemies _by Quincy 'Quickfire' MacGilligan.

"That's going to be a lot to carry, Mrs Weasley," observed Neville doubtfully.

"Heavens, dear," she replied, "we only have to put a Featherweight Charm on it."

Feeling a little foolish, he shrugged sheepishly. "Oh, right; forgot about that. Herbology was my best subject, you know."

Mrs Weasley gave him a brief pat on the shoulder. "Not to worry. I was useless at Transfiguration until my brothers sorted me out."

That made him feel somewhat better.

"Now, there's another bag for yourself, so take it home with you and pack some clothes and whatever else you think we might need," she said, handing him a small brown knapsack.

"Thanks. I'll have to stop over at Hogwarts before I meet Gran, though. There's something there I need, if I can get it. I was also hoping to speak with Harry before I left. Do you know when he'll be back?"

"Oh, I'm not really sure, dear," Mrs Weasley replied. "He and Ginny went with Ron to see Hermione off to Australia. She's going to pick up her parents and bring them back home, apparently. They had to go to the Ministry for an International Portkey - they might be there for a good few hours before she can actually leave. Is it something important you needed to see him about?"

Neville was busy frowning. "I wanted to ask him if I could borrow his Invisibility Cloak. It might come in handy, and I'll be able to give him it back in the morning."

His hostess was lost in thought for some seconds. "I'm not sure it would be wise to ask - might raise too many questions, you know."

The teenager's expression fell. It would've been good to have it, just in case.

"However," said Mrs Weasley suddenly, and her tone made Neville brighten again, "I could just take it. He'll never know."

The knapsack he'd been grasping fell to the kitchen floor as his fingers slackened in surprise. Had she just implied that she'd _steal_ Harry's Cloak?

Feeling Neville's eyes on her back, she raised her brows in question. "Really, dear. Do you think I was born in a rulebook? I was a teenager once myself, you know - and quite the little rebel. Harry won't miss it for one night, I'll just tell him I'm washing it."

She retrieved his fallen bag and returned it to him with almost a twinkle in her eye, so that he caught a fleeting glimpse of the naughty teen she must once have been.

So _that's_ were Fred and George got their streak from!

He grinned at her and, once all the packing was complete, made his way to the fireplace.

"If Gran calls, tell her I'm in the garden or something, would you? I'll try to meet her in an hour's time, if all goes well."

"So you haven't told her where we're going." It was a statement, not a question.

Neville paused to regard Mrs Weasley. "No. She probably wouldn't believe me if I did. Anyway, what's the point? It'll all be over by tomorrow morning and it's not as if she can do anything to help. Besides, the Valar asked you to be my guardian, not her - I don't want to upset her by telling her that."

His Guardian gave him a sympathetic smile and nodded her agreement.

"Do you and George want to join us for lunch?" Neville asked, hoping she said yes, but it wasn't to be.

"Thank you, Neville, that's very kind of you. But I really don't see George leaving his room at any point today, let alone the house. I want to spend a few hours with him, anyway - see if I can cheer him up. Or at least give him something to do that will occupy his mind. Do make my apologies to Augusta, there's a dear."

He nodded. "Tell him I said hello. And if there's anything he needs, he shouldn't hesitate to ask for it. I'd be happy to entertain him over at my place for a while, if he likes. I've got some really great plants in my greenhouse that might give him an idea for new Wheezes - just tell him not to tell my Gran I said that. She'll kill me if she thinks I'm encouraging him to 'debauch a whole new generation of schoolchildren'."

The offer induced another wonderful motherly hug. "I think perhaps the thought of Augusta's disapproval alone might entice him out in a day or two, thank you, dear." She indicated the floo powder. "Well off you go then. No doubt I'll see you tonight in ... well, wherever we end up. Do make sure you pack all you need. Don't worry about food or such, for I've enough for us both. Just bring whatever you think we might need to fight a war," she finished wryly.

Neville gave a half-smile and threw the powder into the fireplace, waiting for the emerald flames to burst into life before stepping in. After stating his destination, Neville waved his hand in farewell, and Mrs Weasley's kind face soon disappeared as he was sent hurtling through the Floo Network to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

**XXX**

It was earlier than usual when Neville retired that evening (much to his grandmother's surprise). The teenager had been gripped by a very odd mixture of anticipation and dread all day, and their effects were beginning to show in his drooping eyes and sluggish movements.

After leaving Hogwarts (with his mysterious prize magically stuffed into the little brown knapsack), he'd met the formidable matriarch in Diagon Alley, and they'd spent several hours going round the newly opened shops while she bought furniture to replace the items destroyed by Dawlish's untimely visit all those weeks ago. Unfortunately for Neville, his grandmother knew him all too well and was quick to realise that his nervous ramblings and constant clock-watching meant he was trying to conceal something from her. She'd spent hours quizzing him about his time at the Weasleys' and the alarmed teenager had quite the job of trying to throw her off the scent of his secret.

When they'd arrived home, and her questions _still_ persisted, he'd finally snapped, resulting in one of their rare arguments.

"It's nothing you need to worry about, Gran!" Neville declared, irritated that she'd spent a whole afternoon needling him. "Just leave it alone."

"Don't you raise your voice at me, young man! You may be of age, but that does not excuse bad manners. Or do you want to turn out like a Malfoy?"

"I'll never be like a ruddy Malfoy," he replied, aghast. The mere image of flouncing about like a blond-haired twat with a sharp nose was enough to fill him with horror.

"And that's quite enough of that bad language, Neville Longbottom! I don't know where you picked up such disgraceful vocabulary, but you'd better drop it right back down again before I cast a Horn Tongue Hex on that offensive mouth of yours!"

"Sorry, Gran. But, honestly. A _Malfoy_?" He shivered in revulsion.

"Stop trying to change the subject. Why won't you tell me what it is that you're hiding?" demanded his (very scary) relative, determined to eke out his secrets. "I can't imagine anything that would make you so defensive anymore. The war is over after all. Is it a girl? Have you taken a fancy to the Weasley girl?"

Wow - three and a half years late on that one. "No, Gran. That was ages ago. I just wanted to make sure that Mrs Weasley and George were all right. We talked after I cleared the garden, and I lost track of the time. Things are difficult for Mrs Weasley just now. She just needed someone to talk to, that's all."

His grandmother eyed him suspiciously. "She? I thought you wanted to make sure George was all right. Didn't you spend time with him as well?"

"Well, no; how could I? He didn't leave his room the whole time I was there."

"So you spent almost three hours alone with an emotionally vulnerable woman, and have spent the rest of the afternoon with me reluctant to talk of your activities?" She took her hat off and placed it on the hallway stand, before turning to glower at him.

Bloody hell! Was she suggesting what he _thought_ she was suggesting?

"Well?" Her pencil-thin eyebrows climbed up her forehead as she waited impatiently for his reply.

"We were just talking!" Neville said, fighting to control his temper.

"About what?"

"Nothing. Everything - does it matter? It was all perfectly innocent. She's old enough to be my mother, for Merlin's sake!"

"If it was all so innocent, then tell me what you talked about," demanded Gran stubbornly.

Neville yanked off his coat and threw it across the hall, missing the coat-stand by a country mile. It fell to the ground.

"I'm not really sure I like what you're implying, Gran. We were talking, that's all. She could use someone to talk to just now, you know. Why don't you go over and have a girly chat with her instead of buying kitchen tables and curtains, hmm?" he challenged. "And for your information, I'd no more have an ... encounter ... with my friend's mum, than I would snog Professor McGonagall!"

With that, he left the startled witch frozen in shock in the hallway while he stomped off to the greenhouse clutching his knapsack.

He had been extremely angry with her for the rest of the evening, and dinner had been a cold, stilted affair with no conversation whatsoever between them. Oh, he _knew_ she didn't really believe he was having some sort of mad fling with Mrs Weasley, but Neville was annoyed that his grandmother couldn't mind her own business. After all, he was of age now. He'd fought in a ruddy war, and was off to fight in another one before the sun rose. Hadn't he at least earned a little privacy?

The little bag stuffed with goodies was being squashed in his angry grip, so Neville loosened it a little and cleared his mind of all thought as he attempted to fall asleep. Turning over onto his side, the teemager nearly took his eye out with his cherry and unicorn hair wand (which he'd slipped into the waistband of his jeans).

Great. A one-eyed wizard out to help destroy a one-eyed Dark Lord. Quite fitting, really. He shoved the wand a little farther into the waistband, wondering how everything would be transported with him. Neither of the Valar had explained that, so he'd just assumed that as long as his belongings had physical contact with his flesh, that they must come too. That must be why he appeared in his pyjamas.

Odd that the bed hadn't followed him though.

Neville yawned deeply and his eyes began to flutter closed. He was just slipping into dreams as the bedroom door opened and his grandmother looked in on him ...

**XXX**

Varda and Manwë greeted both wizard and witch as they floated into the spacious white room. Together, the Valar stood before the green settle as their guests came to a standstill.

"Welcome, son of Longbottom, daughter of Prewett. We rejoice to see ye both once more. Have ye brought thine staffs of power?"

Mrs Weasley patted her coat pocket contentedly. She had a look of strange excitement on her rosy face, as if she was off on some great adventure.

Well, she was actually, now that Neville thought about it - and so was he!

Neville showed the Valar his own wand, which he'd liberated from his waistband pocket on request.

"Very good. We have much to tell ye both of the world of Middle Earth; and of its peoples and lands. This we must do ere we send ye on thy way, so listen carefully! Ever is it wise to know thine enemies as well as thy friends."

And so the next few hours were spent poring over maps and listening to histories of allies as well as foes. Gradually, Neville began to gain a better understanding of the great struggle the Peoples of the West had endured over the centuries, and his determination to provide the Fellowship with any help he could in their quest to rid themselves of Sauron grew steadily greater.

After absorbing as much as possible in the short time alloted, the visitors retrieved their knapsacks and faced their hosts.

"Well, then ... I suppose it's time to be off," Neville announced nervously. He wasn't sure exactly where they were going to, or how they would get there (though he sincerely hoped he wasn't about to be offered the Middle Earth equivalent a broom. His last trip on one of them hadn't turned out too well, despite the extra lessons Gran had insisted on). He glanced over at Mrs Weasley, wondering if she could fly one.

But he needn't have worried; the Valar had alternate methods of transport in mind.

"A boat awaits ye in the harbour yonder. We have already spoken words of blessing over it, to aid thy passage more swiftly across the Sundering Sea to the Grey Havens. There, Cirdan the Shipwright shall set ye a guide to Lothlórien, if needed," said Manwë. "Be warned, though, that thy journey from here to there may be tiring; though Ulmo has promised ye both a safe passage across his waters. If either of ye possess arts to make thy travel faster across the lands thereafter, make use of them - for time is of the essence. The Dark Lord Sauron will not await thy presence before he crushes the West."

Neville frowned. Well, that wasn't very polite of the evil twat, was it? He and Mrs Weasley had travelled all the way from Great Britain to take part in Middle Earth's war; the least the ungrateful git could do was keep the champagne stoppered until they arrived.

"Actually, dear, do you have any photos of the place you want to send us to?" enquired Mrs Weasley politely. Her question produced blank looks from their graceful hosts. Neville, on the other hand, knew e_xactly_ what she intended to do, and he blanched.

"I do not understand what this 'foe-toe' may be. We are not accustomed to keeping portions of our enemies' corpses as trophies," shuddered Manwë, slightly repulsed at the thought.

The image of the stately man sporting a gory necklace of digits almost made Neville choke, and he had to fight to hold back his laughter.

"Heavens, no!" cried Mrs Weasley, aghast. "I mean a sort of life-like picture; a very detailed image that gives a true representation of exactly where we are going."

Varda smiled in comprehension. "Ah. Allow me, Lady Molly." She offered her arm and Mrs Weasley took it (rubbing it in concern).

"You still look a bit pale, dear. Are you sure you're well enough to be moving about? I've packed some Pepper-Up potion, you know; a drop or two of that and you'll soon be feeling more like your old self again. Would you like me to leave you some?"

"Thy concern is greatly appreciated, daughter of Prewett," replied Varda warmly, as she glowed at the matronly figure. "Yet I am able to lead ye both to thy desired image without its aid. Follow us, young Wizard."

Did he have to? Normally, Neville would be thrilled to trail behind such a beauty; but if Mrs Weasley wanted to get a picture of their destination, it could only mean she was thinking of Disapparating - something he couldn't do yet (and didn't like very much, actually - very unpleasant business).

Varda did not lead them very far, only into the next room, much to the apparent relief of Mrs Weasley. As he entered the little chamber, Neville saw that there were enormous blue drapes covering the entire southern wall. Manwë passed him silently and, approaching the curtains, reached up with one long arm to pull lightly on a golden sash. The drapes parted from the middle outwards, revealing a mirror of sorts. It occupied the length of the wall and was easily three metres in height. Decorated around the edges in scrolling gold script, its surface was not quite the glassy smoothness of ordinary mirrors; more like highly polished silver.

"Observe the Window of Arda," declared Manwë, with a regal sweep of his arm.

Mrs Weasley gasped at its beauty. All four occupants were shown reflected in its surface. The witch, ever the female, took the opportunity to adjust her hair under her woolly hat and pull her warm tweed coat straight. Neville didn't bother. What was the point? Varda had already dumped him for the pretty bloke by the curtains.

The beautiful Vala raised her hand and waved it elegantly across the reflective surface and, forgetting his lamentable love life for the moment, Neville watched in fascination as the 'window' began to swirl. Colour burst across it, spinning so fast it made him feel dizzy until, eventually, it slowed down, allowing his roiling stomach to follow suit.

"It may not be possible to show ye exactly where we would send ye both. The Window shows only brief glimpses. But it may offer insight into thy destination," said Varda.

Finally, the whirring stopped completely. Before them now appeared a body of water shaped like a spear, with tall, dark mountains directly to the north. Green slopes led to the shores, and the water stretched off into the distance, before leading to a merry spring at its far southern edge.

"Mirrormere," revealed Varda, "in the Dimrill Dale on the eastern edge of Moria, known also as Khazad-dûm. If thy journey brings ye here, follow the spring at its southernmost edge until ye come upon the river Silverlode, or Celebrant as it is called by the Elves. This will lead thy feet to the borders of Lothlorien, home of the Elves. There, if thy journey be swift, shall ye both be united with the Fellowship."

"Erm, I don't mean to be rude, Mrs Varda, but how will these elves or the Fellowship know that we're not enemies? I mean, from what you said yesterday, your Dark Lord is a wizard. And so's that other one - what's his name?"

"Saruman," offered Varda, and Neville nodded his confirmation. "Fear not, Chosen One. Thine auras are not foul, thy faces not deceitful, thine eyes clear and true. And do not forget that thy Guardian and Guide holds my favour on her breast." Her fingers captured the sparkling gem, which seemed to leap out the top of Mrs Weasley's coat, causing her to jump slightly in surprise. The Vala smiled at her in apology.

"I do not part with my grace lightly, child," she continued, allowing the weight of the jewel to return to its chain and turning her lovely face towards him. "That I do so now, I do to honour thy wish of protection for thy Guardian, and to honour ye both for thine acceptance of this task."

The Vala slowly approached him, and Neville gulped heavily as he was faced with the full glory of her beauty. "The Elves will know the Light of Varda for what it is when they see it. No enemy of the Valar would ever be granted such a gift - indeed no living being ever has before, friend or foe."

Her warm hand cupped his cheek and Neville thought he might very well collapse with joy. "But thou art the Wizard of my choosing. Thou hast complied with my request for aid, though it brings thee far from thy newfound peace, and may well endanger thy life. I would do what I may to ease thy time here after all thy sacrifices."

Dropping her hand, she returned her gaze to the Window of Arda; but the besotted teenager couldn't really see anything that flashed through it afterwards. In fact, only Mrs Weasley's voice crying: "Ooh, that'll do nicely!" finally shattered his happy moment of bliss, allowing him to recover himself more fully (and be very grateful to find that he hadn't drooled down his chin).

"What dost thou have in mind for this place?" queried Manwë curiously of the flame-haired witch.

"Well, I think that rather than trouble your nice Mr Ulmo for a boat, we can just Apparate to the Grey Havens, then Apparate from there to Lothlórien," said Mrs Weasley, greatly satisfied at the thought of a long journey drastically reduced.

"What is this 'Apparate' that thou believes will carry thee to Middle Earth?" asked Varda.

"Well, it's going from one place to another in a manner of seconds," explained Mrs Weasley. "You just concentrate and with a simple turn, _poof_, you're at your destination in the blink of an eye! Very efficient way to travel, even if it is slightly uncomfortable. Still, this would be a lot easier if we had a Portkey - much better for long distances. I don't suppose you have one lying around?" She looked at the Vala hopefully.

"We possess no key of ports here that would allow for such magical transportation, Lady Molly, but thine alternative method should be effective nonetheless.

Manwë appeared unconvinced. "'Tis a distance of leagues uncounted, daughter of Prewett. Can thy magic transport ye both so far?"

Mrs Weasley frowned. "Leagues uncounted? What are we talking about here - more than five hundred miles?"

He nodded. "'Tis many thousands of miles more at least."

"Oh. Thousands. Well, that changes things slightly. I'm not sure we'll be able to Apparate that far. Perhaps we might take the boat after all." Mrs Weasley looked crestfallen (though Neville was secretly pleased)

"Fear not, daughter of Prewett," said Manwë with a rare smile. "Where my beloved has bestowed her Light upon thee, let me now add a gift of my own."

Curious, Neville watched as the male Vala placed a hand on her shoulder, closed his eyes briefly, and spoke a few low words. Unlike his wife's gift, there was no accompanying shimmer to announce his blessing (which made Neville hope that - whatever it was - it hadn't worked. Not if it meant he had to Disapparate).

Manwë's eyes opened once more. "And so it is done. When next thee use thy magic, it will enhance the power of thy spell maniifold."

What? _Manifold?_ Neville's jaw dropped.

"You can do that? You couldn't try that on my wand, could you?" he asked hopefully. "Just to give us a slight advantage over Sauron's army?"

Grey eyes studied him in amusement. "Nay, I could not, child. For my gift will not work directly with thy Guardian's magic, but with her_ intent_. Thus, if it were her intent now to loose one stone from my Hall, she may well bring the entire structure crashing down upon us instead. Mercifully, that is not her intent."

"I should think not!" muttered Neville's matronly companion, shocked at the very idea.

The Vala acknowledged her sentiment with a graceful nod. "But as her intent is to transport ye both across the Sundering Sea, my gift will aid her in that goal. Yet once ye both set foot upon Mortal shores, my gift will dissipate; for the blessing that I have bestowed upon her has no form to bear it, unlike that of my beloved spouse."

He indicated the pendant snuggled deep within the folds of Mrs Weasey's tweed jacket. "Therefore, its grace will dissipate once ye have arrived at thy destination."

"Well, we're both very grateful to you for all your help. Now, I really think it's about time that we headed off. Are you ready, Neville?"

Oh dear. This was going to be embarrassing ...

"Erm, Mrs Weasley ... I can't actually Disapparate yet. To be honest, I can't Apparate, either. I didn't really have the chance to take the test, what with the war and all that."

"Not to worry, Neville. Just hold on to my arm and I'll take you over myself. It's been a while since I actually did a side-along Apparition, but I'm sure it will all come back to me," she replied, smiling at him comfortingly.

A while? Well, that was just bloody brilliant. With his luck, he'd get splinched halfway to the Grey Havens and rematerialise without his head.

The red-haired witch sensed his anxiety. "Don't worry, Neville, dear. I am very good at Apparating, you know. It'll all be over before you know what's happened."

What would? The Apparating, or the loss of his head?

"Hast thou used thine arts to secure the jewel thou bearest?" enquired Varda suddenly.

Mrs Weasley promptly pulled out her wand and waved it over the pendant. "There you go, dear. Sticking Charm. Not permanent, so no cause for alarm. Well, goodbye to you both, for the present. Thank you so much for your hospitality! Shall we be off then, Neville?" She offered him an arm and he took it reluctantly.

Manwë addressed them before they had a chance to turn and disappear. "The good will of the Valar go with ye both, son of Longbottom, daughter of Prewett." He approached the teenager and regarded him gravely. "Do thy duty well, young Wizard. The fate of the West may depend upon it, for if the Fellowship fails, Middle Earth will fall."

Great. No pressure then. "Don't worry sir. I'll do everything I can to keep them safe and focussed on their mission. You can depend on me."

"See that thou dost, child. Our gratitude, if thee succeed, shall be boundless."

The male Vala-Veela put his arm around his smiling wife and gave a graceful nod of farewell.

Neville clenched the coat of his Guardian tightly, wondering what the man would do to him if he failed.

As they turned on the spot, the last thing he saw was their graves faces, and the last thought that flashed through his mind was:

_Goodbye head! It's been nice knowing you._

But unknown to the brave adventurer, he had bigger problems to worry about than losing his head, for a force was about to be unleashed on the lands of the West that would shake its peoples to their very core ...

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Author's Note:_ This was a bit gapfillery, perhaps, but this is not going to be a story of short duration, so I'm quite happy to take things one step at a time and see it done the way I want. The Apparating by seeing an image of the intended destination may be a pile of twaddle, I'm not entirely sure ...

I had originally intended to send the pair to Rivendell initially, just because the thought of Molly Weasley mothering Elrond and taking over his kitchens amused me no end, but, alas! It's not meant to be. Next chapter: Lothlorien or bust! Our intrepid heroes have quite the trip to Galadriel's fair city and Neville has a chance to prove his worth …

Kara's Aunty :)


	6. The Undiscovered Country

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. and Lord of the Rings and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

**Credit: **www dot hp-encyclopedia dot com and www dot Tuckborough dot net, www dot plant press dot com, www dot Chiltern seeds dot co dot uk

**Please review - it really _is_ my only reward.**

**Not Quite A Maia**

**Chapter 6**

_Third Age: 8th February 3019_

_Grey Havens_

Fortunately for Neville, Mrs Weasley _was_ every bit as good at Apparating as she claimed to be, and even the length of time that had passed since her last side-along didn't hamper her excellent efforts.

After they had Disapparated from the Valar's home, he had known no more until they appeared at the mouth of a great river and sent a company of graceful beings into a raving panic with the _crack_ of their arrival.

"So sorry," apologised Mrs Weasley to the half a dozen heavily-armed men that had quickly surrounded them. "Normally I arrive with a _pop_, but bringing a passenger along for the ride has quite taken the puff out of me."

She did look a bit pale at that. Neville put his arm around her to lend his support and glared at their potential captors.

"We're not here to hurt you, so you can just put those things down," he said firmly, indicating the swords that were pointing in their direction. "I'm Neville Longbottom, a wizard, and this is Mrs Weasley, a witch. We were sent by Varda and Manwë to help the Peoples of the West and we'll be making our way to Lothlórien in just a short while. Do you have somewhere we can sit down for a few minutes, please?"

"Bold claims indeed for such a young one," said a voice. The wary strangers parted to allow a tall, silver-haired man through. His grey eyes seemed to pierce Neville's very soul, and the teenager tightened his grip on his Guardian (not entirely for her own benefit). "Strange that we have been given no sign from across the Sea to expect your arrival."

Oh, great. The Valar could have least sent them a post-owl.

"I am Cirdan the Shipwright," said the challenger. "You have entered the Grey Havens, port of the Elves of Lindon.

"Elf?" said Mrs Weasley dubiously. Neville didn't blame her. This 'elf' didn't look at all like the ones back home. His ears were pointy, but not bat-like or hairy - although there _was_ a rather dubious silver growth on his chin. Made him look like a young Dumbledore ...

"As I said, Lady. You must forgive my companions their caution: not even Gandalf the Grey, wisest of all the Maiar, arrived in such a fashion."

"Yeah, well, if it weren't for Gandalf the ruddy Grey, we wouldn't have arrived at all!" Neville muttered, irked that they still hadn't offered Mrs Weasley a seat. Weren't these elves supposed to be hospitable?

The sharp ears of the elves caught his low remark.

"I do not know if you are who or what you claim to be, child, but none in Middle Earth speak of the Grey Wanderer in such a disrespectful manner, unless they be enemies," said Cirdan coldly as his people raised their swords again.

Touchy lot, weren't they?

"Sorry, sir, but if good old Gandalf hadn't gone 'wandering' through Time and Space after he died, we wouldn't have been pulled from our beds several thousand years in the future by your friends and asked to step in for him," replied the teenager, still annoyed by their lack of gallantry towards Mrs Weasley.

All swords immediately dropped towards the ground.

"Died? What do you mean? That is impossible!" cried the elf lord in disbelief.

Neville felt a bit guilty for being so short with him; the elf looked quite upset. "Look, I'm sorry. I didn't know you hadn't heard. Gandalf, eh ... he fought a Balrog in Khazad-dûm, apparently."

"Ai! A Balrog - of Moria! The blight of Morgoth! It slew Mithrandir?"

"Well, I dunno about this Mithrandir bloke, but it didn't kill Gandalf - he killed it. Only thing was, he was so knackered afterwards, he died himself."

He wasn't sure if that last bit was true, but after Manwë's description of the giant, fiery lizard, Neville imagined he'd probably keel over dead himself if he'd just spent ten days duelling the ruddy thing.

"A heavy misfortune indeed for Middle Earth - greater than you may know!" declared Cirdan. His elven friends still looked a bit shell-shocked. "And you are to replace him?" he queried, looking at the two unexpected visitors sceptically, his elegant silver brows raised in question.

"Something like that. Look, do you mind if we talk about this somewhere else? Only, Mrs Weasley's still a bit wobbly after getting us here from Mrs Varda's place and she needs to get her strength back up if she's to take us to Lothlórien."

The elf surveyed them speculatively. "You use the names of the Valar freely; have knowledge of deeds beyond our wisdom; and talk in a most peculiar manner - yet I feel no foulness about you. Though your speech be strange and your tongue a little uncouth, I believe you mean no harm." He approached the witch and offered his arm. "Come, my Lady. Let me lead you to where you may take some rest and talk of your Quest."

"Why, that's very nice of you, dear," said Mrs Weasley gratefully, slipping her hand through the proffered arm.

They followed him past the other elves, across the port and into an elegant dwelling filled with pale blues, golds and greens. Sea colours. Cirdan took them through an arched hallway and led them into a spacious room with a large window that overlooked the River Lune, where he offered them a seat. Refreshments were served and Mrs Weasley sipped gratefully on her deliciously refreshing quinberry juice, a local delicacy.

Once the niceties had been observed, the elven lord quizzed them further on the fate of Gandalf and their part in his tale.

"We're not really in his tale, though," said Neville, after explaining certain (but not all) details of the necessity of their mission. "I mean, the Valar said he was dead - but they also talked about trying to call him back, so he can't be _completely_ dead, can he?"

He shrugged helplessly, barely able to able to believe he'd just said something that sounded quite that stupid. But Cirdan was taking it very seriously.

"There are many mysteries in the world, young Wizard - both on this side of the Sea and in Valinor from whence you came. We may never understand the wonders of the Valar, but we are nonetheless grateful for their beneficence. If any have the power to call the Grey Wizard back to his former life, it is they."

Eh, all right then. If you say so.

Neville sipped on the tangy juice. All this talk of people coming back from the dead made him think of Voldemort and Sauron. The only other people he knew of that shared the dubious pleasure were Inferi - and they didn't really come back from the dead, just sort of stumbled about growling 'ooh', 'aah' and 'grr', or something similar.

"And you have fought and conquered such a Dark Lord in your own world?" Cirdan enquired. "You are young to have accomplished such a task."

"Well, _I_ didn't defeat him, to be honest. It was Harry Potter, a friend - but I did help to lead Dumbledore's Army, I suppose," replied Neville, feeling suddenly inadequate. It sounded so ... trite ... when he voiced it aloud.

"There was a bit more to it than just that, dear," chided Mrs Weasley gently. "Together with my own daughter, Ginny, and little Luna Lovegood, Neville mounted a year-long rebellion in the school where You-Know-Who's Death Eaters taught. Some of their so -called 'teachers' were followers of our Dark Lord. He placed them there to terrorise the children and make sure they grew up to be good little followers of his. The Death Eaters threatened them, tortured them and tried to teach them to hate Muggles - they're non-magic people, you know."

Her voice was heavy with ire.

"When the children - some as young as eleven years old - refused to participate in their awful lessons, the Death Eaters would make them cast torture spells on each other as punishment."

The elf was visibly angered at the thought of children being treated in such a manner.

The witch continued. "Neville and the girls organised an army of students who wanted to fight them and they trained in secret, practising defence spells and recruiting followers; hiding students who were being arrested because their magical parentage was in doubt. Then little Luna was kidnapped at Christmas and taken to the headquarters of He Who Must Not Be Named because her father was printing leaflets in support of Harry; we didn't send Ginny back after the Easter holidays because our family is closely connected to Harry, and so Neville was on his own, having to go into hiding because they suspected him to be the ringleader of the rebellion."

Neville felt a little embarrassed at the obvious pride in Mrs Weasley's voice.

"When the final battle took place in the school grounds," she continued, "we all thought Harry was dead - but that didn't stop Neville from challenging the Dark Lord or killing his Horcrux snake."

"Horcrux?" asked the elf.

"Yeah, em apparently Voldemort had split his soul into several pieces so he could live forever. He put them into certain objects for safekeeping: as long as these objects - and his snake - remained safe, he couldn't die. But Harry, Ron and Hermione had destroyed all the rest until only Nagini, the snake, was left."

"And you took care of that, dear!" exclaimed his proud Guardian.

"An unhappy tale, indeed," said Cirdan. "But that such young ones had the strength to rebel, and the fortitude to endure, is most impressive."

His eyes were on the red-faced teenager. "I didn't do it alone, you know. We all fought - and Mrs Weasley killed his scariest Death Eater."

Mrs Weasley's cheeks were decidedly more pink than they had been several minutes earlier and she placed her empty glass on the table, slightly embarrassed at the wonder in Neville's tone. Opting for a change of subject, she addressed their host. "Thank you very much for the lovely drink, Cirdan dear, but we really ought to be going. I had no idea it would be so late when we arrived. It must be nearly mid-afternoon at least! We really need to leave while we still can."

"It would be my pleasure to offer you both hospitality for the night, if you wish," said the elf generously. "It is a long journey from here to Galadriel's fair city and you may need to gather your strength for the arduous travels ahead."

"Well, that's very kind of you. But it's best if we set off now; get the journey underway, so to speak. Never put off 'til tomorrow what's best done today."

"My Lady, if you leave just now, where will you rest in these unfamiliar lands? It is several days travel to the nearest town and that is of the Periannath, who are most wary of the 'Big Folk', as they name them."

She smiled and patted the ancient one's hand. "Don't worry about us, dear. We'll get to Lothlórien the same way we got here - by Apparating. Anyway, if we land a little outside of it, we can always pitch one of the tents and spend the night there."

"Tent?" asked the elf, looking at their belongings curiously and Neville knew he must be wondering where they could have packed such a cumbersome piece of equipment.

He picked up the larger knapsack and dug through it until he found one of them. Placing it on the floor, he pulled his wand from his waistband and pointed it at the canvas. "_Erecto_." It sprang up from the ground before landing back on it, fully constructed. Several tent pegs - which, of course, he'd forgotten about - flew from the knapsack, and thudded through the grey ropes that were pulled taut from the material.

Right through the floor of Cirdan's house.

"Eh, sorry about that."

But Cirdan paid no attention to his oversight, rising instead to inspect the fascinating object in front of him.

"Would you like to come inside?" offered the matronly witch, springing eagerly from her chair and leading the very much taller elf inside the tent by the sleeve of his tunic.

"Oh, for goodness' sake! It smells like an old shoe in here!" She pulled her wand from her coat pocket and waved it, instantly dispelling the stale odours left behind by Harry, Ron and Hermione during their enforced flight.

"Much better. Of course, the décor isn't exactly inviting, you know; but I'm afraid it'll have to do until we can afford a better one. And it's still better than sleeping on the ground." She turned to offer an apologetic smile to the elf, but he had wandered off with Neville to investigate the little rooms.

"Truly, you are Wizards of strange power to make such a small dwelling on the outside appear so much larger inside. And most unusual furnishings. What is that?"

Neville gave him a brief description of the shower. "It's not good without water though - usually there's a well or something we can tap into, though I suppose we could just fill the bath with a really good Aguamenti charm."

"Aguamenti charm?"

He demonstrated, and the silver-haired elf watched in mild astonishment as a jet of clear water came spurting out the end of his wand to land in the bath. "A good Heating charm, and you're all set," said the teenager in satisfaction. He vanished the water as Mrs Weasley found them.

"Ah, there you are. As you can see, Cirdan, it's not exactly elegant and I wouldn't dream of inviting guests around for dinner in it - what if they walked into the bedroom by accident and saw the shabbiness of the sheets? - but it'll do nicely for a day or two in the wild, I think. Now, I hate to spoil your enjoyment boys, but we need to pack this back up and start heading off."

They followed her outside, where the elf silently watched as Neville deconstructed the tent, repaired the gaping holes in the floor with a hasty _Reparo, _and started to pack the canvas back into the larger knapsack (Mrs Weasley removed several items first so he could get it in exactly the right spot, causing Cirdan's eyebrows to climb farther and farther up his forehead in disbelief at what the deceptively small bag could actually hold).

Their host excused himself briefly and returned bearing several blankets and two sealed jars. Handing the jars to the witch, he explained they contained miruvor and quinberry juice, for refreshment on their travels.

"I would also ask you to accept these, as a small token of goodwill. They will keep you warmer through the night than the blankets you already possess."

Neville accepted them gratefully. "Thanks very much Mr Cirdan ... eh ... Lord Cirdan."

Mrs Weasley was thrilled and packed them hastily in her bag. "Well, then. It's time we were off. Thank you so much for your hospitality, Cirdan, dear. Would you like us to send your regards to any family or friends in Lothlórien?"

"My Lady, you are the very essence of cordiality. If you would kindly offer my felicitations to the Lord and Lady of the lands, I would be most grateful."

Picking his little knapsack up from the floor and securing his arms through it, Neville walked towards their host and said (very respectfully): "I'm sorry I was a bit brash when we met, sir. I wasn't expecting to have half a dozen swords waved in our faces, so I may have over-reacted. I've got nothing but the deepest respect for Gandalf the Grey because I've heard a lot about him. He sounds a bit like Professor Dumbledore; and _he_ was the best wizard I ever knew. Pity we couldn't meet him while we were here - but then, I suppose if we could, the Valar wouldn't have asked for our help in the first place."

"Your apology was not required, Master Longbottom, but I will accept it if that is your wish," said the elf, nodding his head in acknowledgement. A smile touched his face. "If the Valar themselves deemed you worthy to fight in Mithrandir's stead, then I know that you must be a great Wizard ..."

Crikey, Neville wasn't too sure about that!

"... and the tale of your own valiant deeds confirms this. I wish you both the greatest success in your Quest. For all our sakes."

"Thank you, sir," replied Neville, grateful the bearded one didn't hold a grudge.

Mrs Weasley offered her arm to him and he grasped it in readiness to Disapparate.

"May the grace of the Valar go with you both," said their host, and they smiled their thanks before turning on the spot and disappearing from sight before his amazed eyes.

**XXX**

_Crack!_

The two travellers reappeared in a remote clearing as the dark fingers of night began to unfurl across the western sky. Short, gnarled fir trees ringed the clearing, and its steep banks were awash with long, strap-like fronds of harts-tongue ferns and whortleberry shrubs.

"Where are we?" asked Neville, wishing now that he'd paid more attention to the Window of Arda (and less to the hopeless cause that was his love life).

"Oh, dear - I must still be a little off balance with the side-alongs, I'm afraid. It looks like the little dell somewhere south of Khazad-dûm that I saw in the Window of Arda. Oh! And I had _so_ tried to concentrate on the elf city, but I kept thinking about here, and there, and Mirrormere."

Mrs Weasley looked a bit miffed.

"Don't worry. At least we didn't end up in all three places at the same time!" he said gratefully, not particularly thrilled at the possibility of having left his legs by the lake, his torso in Lothlórien and everything else in the clearing in which they stood. "Come on, let's see if we can get our bearings."

He assisted her up the edge of the dell; they had to pull on the shrubs for leverage to haul themselves over because it was quite steep. Reaching the top, wizard and witch took a good look around.

There was a road near the dell which lay parallel to a bubbling stream; to its north, mountains and darkness; to the distant south, a slight golden haze - though that was several hours away by foot. The Golden Wood, perhaps?

"Well, I'd guess we're going that way, unless you can Apparate us any nearer," said Neville, looking at his Guardian dubiously.

"Not now, if you don't mind, Neville. Two side-along Apparitions in the space of an hour have left me a bit washed out. A brisk walk and a bit of late afternoon air won't do me any harm though. It's not dark yet, but it won't be far behind us, and I'd rather camp as near to the forest as we can get than be stuck out on the road for anyone to see before we lose all the light."

Although the road was clear and they appeared to be the only living beings in sight for miles, Neville nonetheless agreed with Mrs Weasley's sentiment: these were dark times for this world - best they get out of the open as quickly as possible.

"All right then. Let's get going; but keep your eyes and ears open for anything suspicious," he replied, grasping his wand tightly in his hand.

Daft thing to say, really, Neville thought, as they set off quickly towards the distant gleam in the south. Everything in this world would probably look suspicious, except the ruddy trees. Thank goodness some things remained constant. They set a brisk pace on the narrow road and Neville absorbed his surroundings as he walked.

Apart from Middle Earth Elves, nothing seemed different about the terrain. In fact, everything seemed exactly the same as back in their own world: same kind of grass, same clear water, sun still dipping in the west; they may as well have been camping in the English countryside. He felt a slight pang of disappointment. It would've been nice to find _something_ unusual to set the place apart, like a new type of plant, or a green sky. Perhaps even an extra moon or something.

Well, maybe not an extra moon. That might send the werewolves into a mad frenzy.

This made him shiver and he wondered if there were werewolves in Middle Earth, ready to spring out at them as soon as the sun sank. Glancing at the sky, he attempted to determine if the moon might be a full one that evening, but it was too early yet for the celestial body to show her garments.

Bloody brilliant. That would be all they needed. A Middle Earth Fenrir Greyback.

Two and a half hours later, the stream had widened into a river, gushing along beside the road like yet another eager traveller anxious to enter the golden forest of the elves. The sky was significantly darker, forcing them to make their way by wandlight. Fortunately, the moon was a mere crescent and no werewolves or other travellers had disturbed their journey thus far - it was as if they were entirely alone in the world.

Mrs Weasley had more colour on her cheeks and had unbuttoned the top of her tweed coat to let some fresh air circulate. Neville was glad she was feeling more like her old self, but personally he was beginning to feel uneasy. This unnatural stillness was almost like the calm before the storm ... He strained his ears for any telltale signs of unfriendly pursuit.

"Listen!"

Mrs Weasley did as instructed, stopping to strain her own ears as much as she could. "Why, that sounds like trees - we must be near the edge of the forest!" she exclaimed in excitement.

"Yeah. Come on, let's go a bit faster and see if we can get inside it and set the tent up. It's getting too dark to go any further tonight."

He grabbed her arm and pulled her in the direction of the rustling leaves, forcing her into a quicker pace. The hairs on the back of his neck were beginning to rise and he had the very uncomfortable feeling that they were being observed.

"Neville, dear," asked his Guardian in an uneasy tone. "Is there any particular reason you're frogmarching me towards the forest like a naughty five-year-old?"

"Can't you feel that?" he whispered.

"Feel what?"

"Like we're being watched?"

She shook her head, though he could barely see it in the gloomy light despite the _Lumos _spell. Sensing this, Mrs Weasley verbalised her answer. "No, not really. I just thought it was night creatures - they must have owls here, you know."

The young wizard frowned. "No, I don't think it's owls. We would've heard them hooting or something."

"Perhaps you're just being a bit overcautious, dear? After all, we're too near to the elf lands for there to be any real threat, surely? All the danger is farther south, in Gondor and Rohan. We're a bit too far away from there to be under any real threa..."

She never finished the sentence. Out of nowhere came a loud, piercing cry, one which was soon joined by many others.

"What was that?" Mrs Weasley gasped. The Lumosspell was quickly extinguished, leaving them in the encroaching gloom of dusk as they readied for fight. Brandishing their wands before them, they stood back to back, turning in tight circles.

"Dunno - I can hardly see a thing," said Neville in concern, before _whoosh! _- several projectiles could be heard flying towards them.

"_Protego_!" he cried, and a shimmering wall burst before him, deflecting what appeared to be arrows. "We're under attack!"

At least a dozen swarthy creatures in filthy, dark garments rushed towards them; some as short as Mrs Weasley, others taller than Neville, and all with yellow teeth bared viciously at the sight of two apparently helpless victims. Several continued to fire arrows at them, while others brandished lethal looking knives and swords.

"What the bloody hell are they?" cried the teenager. "They don't look anything like elves ... _Tarantallegra_!"

He caught the nearest one with the jinx and its lower limbs began to wobble uncontrollably, sending its arrow flying off to the right. The creature screamed in fury.

"They must be those orc-things from Moria - Varda said it was likely some had tracked the Fellowship here, but I thought they would all have left by now," called his Guardian, waving her wand wildly at three large orcs heading in her direction. Their skin erupted in painful boils, instantly incapacitating them. Cries of agony began to ring out in the darkness.

Neville was unable to cast many more offensive spells as he was so completely occupied with his Shield charm. He was busy attempting to deflect the increasing rain of arrows that seemed to be appearing from nowhere in the gloom. "I can't see a thing!"

Mrs Weasley tilted her wand upwards and cried: "_Lumos Liberatis Maxima_!" A ball of silver light shot from her wand and hovered above them for a few seconds, before exploding in all directions above their heads. Instantly, the landscape around them for twenty metres became more visible and he heard orcish screams of fury as they shielded their eyes from the sudden glare. Unfortunately the light wasn't strong enough to repel them, and Neville soon found that the number of opponents was greater than he'd initially realised. Wave after wave of bloodthirsty orcs flowed towards them from the tall grasses and surrounding hills, making the young wizard's eyes boggle in dismay.

"The light will only last for a few minutes, so let's try to shake them off and get as far into the forest as we can," Mrs Weasley called, hurling Impediment charms at the screaming masses as fast as she could.

That sounded like a good idea to Neville. The temporary light allowed him to get a better lay of the land: the forest eaves were perhaps a mile or less in the distance and he doubted the enemy would dare trespass into the haven of the elves. He abandoned his Shield charm and opted instead for a Revulsion jinx, happy to see his targets flying back into their rather confused comrades. A smile started to creep along his face.

These orcs weren't _that _much of a threat, were they? Even Mrs Weasley had realised this, and was having a merry old time dancing around the field, wand flying in rapid curves and jabs. Neville almost laughed when half a dozen orcs doubled over in revulsion as soapy bubbles streaming from their mouths.

"_Scourgify_!" she cried, over and over, sending the orcs into a disgusted frenzy as they spat furiously and clawed at their throats. "You could do with a good wash! What a terrible state to leave the house in - you ought to be ashamed of yourselves!"

Not to be outdone, the wizard jabbed his wand at several targets, hitting at least eight orcs with Slug-Vomiting charms. More violent retching filled the night air as the ranks of their unfortunate enemies began to lose cohesion. Confused at the ability of two apparently defenceless individuals to not only withstand, but successfully repel, their vicious attack, the smaller creatures began to break off and head north, deciding not to take the chance that the female may give them the only wash of their lives to date.

Not that any of them fancied the boy's slugs much, either.

The fleeing orcs reduced the number of opponents drastically: only two dozen or so of the larger ones were left. Several others littered the ground, either Stupefied or vomiting various substances, and most of those wobbling unsteadily under the effects of the Tarantallegra were being slain by their own ranks for getting in the way.

A particularly nasty orc caught Neville's eye; a tall, flat-faced one whose black eyes burned with hatred. It thundered across the grass towards him, wielding its dull sword high and looking to kill. The teenager fired a Trip jinx and the orc fell like a log, screaming in rage. But it soon picked itself back up and tried again. Another Trip jinx, another fall, another angry cry of frustration. Neville had to keep one eye on the stubborn creature while shooting spells at the others, but he successfully managed to keep the raging orc from its intended goal.

He was quite enjoying himself, actually.

The improvised Lumos spell Mrs Weasley had provided started to wane and Neville knew the time for fun was over. He pointed his cherry wand at the rampaging fury still trying to reach him and a bolt of red light shot forth. The orc fell, Stupefied, and bothered him no more.

"Time to go!" Neville yelled, grabbing the witch by the arm of her tweed coat, and they ran pell-mell towards the forest eaves. The remaining orcs followed them, screaming with rage and frustration.

"Stubborn little things, aren't they?" gasped Mrs Weasley, red-faced and panting at the exertion. "I don't think the elves will thank us for leading them into their home."

Well, there wasn't much he could do about that for the moment, Neville thought distractedly as he threw a few Stinging hexes at the orcs following in their wake. His only priority now was to get them as far away from himself and the witch as he could.

An arrow whizzed by so closely that it grazed his cheek. Neville grimaced in pain as a burning sensation spread over his skin. His Guardian heard him hissing and spotted the dark line of blood dripping down the side of his face. Furious, she turned to face the orcs, raising her wand to lash out at them, but before she could wreak vengeance on them a brilliant white light burst forth from the pendant cushioned on her breast. Its intensity caused the pair to stagger, temporarily blinded. Luckily they recovered quickly, and Neville glanced backwards, where piercing screams were now issuing from their enemies.

The Light of Varda streamed from the pendant and carried itself towards the two dozen or so orcs at their backs, its brilliance making them shield their eyes as their screams of pain echoed in the night. Abandoning any further attempts to capture and slay the troublesome humans, they turned on their heels and fled, leaving their vomiting comrades to stumble after them.

As soon as they were out of sight, the wondrous pendant resumed its normal state of illumination, sparkling innocently under the starlight.

"Bloody hell!" said Neville in admiration. "That's some necklace you've got, Mrs Weasley!"

The witch, looking very pleased with herself, buttoned her coat quickly. "Yes, it is, isn't it? And _language_, dear."

He rolled his eyes. His Guardian, it seemed, was ever the mother. "C'mon. Let's get into the forest and see if we can set up the tent somewhere safe."

The sudden silence after battle was almost deafening as the pair headed off towards the looming trees. Thanks to the distance they'd covered during their recent flight, Neville and Mrs Weasley reached the eaves a lot sooner than originally planned. Crossing the boundary into the forest proper, they found that the road into the woodlands soon blended with the mossy carpet of the forest floor.

**XXX**

Neville and Mrs Weasley walked for another mile under the power a new Lumos spell. Both were admiring the silver bark of the ethereal trees surrounding them.

"Look, the leaves are golden," said the teenager in awe, pointing to the boughs. "I've never seen anything like it."

He was dying to stop and examine them more closely, but his travelling companion pulled him along after her. "You can have a better look at them once we're safely with Lady Galadriel, dear," she admonished, as he tripped along beside her.

She had a point. He focussed on the way forward and soon they heard the bubbling sounds of a stream some way ahead. Another few minutes walk delivered the travellers to its source. The merry waters of the little stream ran before them, merging with the river that followed their weary footsteps.

"I think we should cross it and then look for a decent clearing to set up the tent," said Neville.

"All right dear. It might be a good idea to put some sort of obstacle between us and those orcs just in case any have decided to keep track of us."

Lifting her coat, she stepped into the stream, which was at first ankle-deep, but soon came to their shins as they made their way across. Emerging on the other side, Mrs Weasley cast a quick drying spell on their lower extremeties, for which the young wizard was very grateful.

The rush of falling water could be heard in the distance, no doubt a waterfall which the darkness kept concealed from sight. Neville felt strangely relaxed after crossing the stream - as if all weariness had left him. His Guardian seemed to feel it too.

"There's something about this place," she said, looking around at the trees lining the forest.

"I know. It feels sort of ... magical, doesn't it? But not like any magic I've seen or felt before. C'mon, let's get a little farther in. If any of those orcs have been stubborn enough to follow us, a little water's not going to stop them for long."

His cheek stung as they went farther into the woods and he wished he'd thought to cleanse it with some of the clear stream water before they'd abandoned it. Never mind. He'd have a look at it when they ...

Just as Neville was debating when to treat his scratch, a slight rustling above their heads alerted witch and wizard to danger, and they were soon brandishing their wands in defence once more. Mrs Weasley leapt back in alarm as three figures clothed in soft greys descended before their eyes from the tree-tops above. More tall figures emerged from the surrounding trees and - for the third time since their trip to Middle Earth began - the two visitors found themselves at the wrong end of a weapon.

"Halt! State your business in the lands of Lothlórien," demanded one of the figures. Their captors closed in, arrows nocked, and soon Neville and Mrs Weasley were contained in a circle of hostile glares.

Well, that was just brilliant. Couldn't these people just _once _offer them a handshake in greeting? Did the Free Peoples of the West have no manners?

Pulling himself straight, Neville took a bold step forward. "I'm Neville Longbottom and this is Mrs Weasley. We're looking for the Fellowship - you haven't seen them by any chance?"

Uh, oh. That was the wrong thing to say, apparently. The arrows came several feet closer as their bearers tightened the circle with long steps in their direction. Neville raised his wand defensively, ready to throw a couple of Stinging hexes at the next ruddy person to who tried to shoot him, when one of the grey-clad figures moved closer still.

"I am Haldir, Marchwarden of this forest. Of what Fellowship do you speak, Neville Longbottom - and why do you imagine we would give news of it to you, if it existed? You trespass on hallowed grounds and we do not take kindly to intruders."

Bloody hell! He looked like a Malfoy! In fact, they _all_ did...

The silver light streaming from a lamp that one of their captors held fell on the company's collective faces. Six elves surrounded them, all silver hair and grey eyes. Regal features regarded the visitors warily and the teenager almost felt the sneer on their leader's lips.

"Let me guess: you didn't know we were coming either, right?" he asked. "Honestly, you lot need to invest in post-owls or something. How d'you ever stay in touch with what's going on outside?" He lowered his wand as a sign of peace, but Mrs Weasley kept hers trained on the elves.

"We were sent by the Valar to help the Fellowship after Gandalf fell. We're wizards ... well, I'm a wizard; Mrs Weasley's a witch. And if I were you," he added, throwing a look at the frowning face of the matronly woman, "I'd think about lowering those bows of yours before you really annoy her. Trust me, you don't want to be coughing up soap for the rest of your lives."

The bows remained trained on the pair despite Neville's warning. "Your claim is a bold one indeed, Neville Longbottom. But there are only five Wizards in Arda, and three of those we know by sight; of the remaining two little is known but the manner of their garb, and neither you nor your companion are clothed in the robes of Blue Wizards."

Good grief, was the pompous git getting fussy about their clothes? He sounded just like Gran before a trip to Great Uncle Algie's.

"Well, I'm sorry if my trousers don't measure up to your exacting standards," he said sarcastically. "We didn't exactly have time to put on something that _you _might find more acceptable; being a bit too busy fighting a horde of those bloody orcs roaming about your forest, and all that. But if it helps, we bring greetings from Cirdan the Shipwright."

That made their captors lower their weapons instantly. Mrs Weasley, satisfied that they were seeing sense, lowered her wand as well.

The snooty one, Haldir, spoke again. "You have seen the Grey Havens?"

"Of course we have," said Mrs Weasley a little frostily. "Cirdan was a very nice chap, very well-mannered you know. _He_ offered us refreshments." She glared at the haughty elf in disapproval. "Varda did tell us to expect to meet you, but we didn't think you'd be waving arrows at us. I'm getting rather tired of people shoving them in my face, I must say."

And, so saying, the red-haired witch demonstrated her annoyance by transfiguring the pointy shafts into daffodils. All six elves jumped back in shock, and the flowers that now sprouted from their quivers shook at the sudden motion.

"Do you see how unpleasant it is when someone catches you unawares?" she demanded, upon returning the arrows to their former shape. She walked up to Haldir and shoved a hand on her hip while waving a finger in his face. "Where are your manners?"

"Forgive us, Lady," he replied, with an elegant nod of his head. "These are dark times for all. You must understand that we need to remain cautious, lest the Enemy take _us_ unaware."

"She's not your enemy - neither of us are. Mrs Weasley, show them your pendant."

The witch opened the top of her coat, allowing the indigenous people to get a better view of the silver chain and gem. It seemed to reflect the starlight and glowed softly, lighting the small clearing in which they stood.

"Elbereth Gilthoniel ... 'tis the Light of Varda! A priceless treasure indeed!" declared Haldir as the rest of his company gazed at the brilliant gem in wonder. His haughty tone had finally been dispelled and he approached the boy with a newfound respect.

"Is this the source of the great light we saw but one hour since?" he asked in wonder.

"Erm, yes, actually. Got rid of those orcs very nicely, too," replied Neville, relieved the elf wasn't looking down his nose at him any more. "Varda gave it to Mrs Weasley when I asked if she could be protected while we stayed here to help the Fellowship."

"Then allow me to offer my apologies, Neville Longbottom, Lady Weasley. Any who may boast the honour of such a gift will be offered safe passage through our lands, for none but the true of heart could ever hold Varda's Light. It would be our honour to escort you to Caras Galadhon, where the Lady Galadriel will no doubt receive you as her esteemed guests."

Neville could have happily kissed the elf for his change of heart, but drew the line at showing his gratitude for their happy turn of fortune in such a manner. He was _not_ a pervy elf fancier (especially when they looked like Malfoys).

"Thanks very much."

"Oh, that's very nice of you, dear," gushed the witch, buttoning her coat once more. "I'm so glad you changed your mind. It would have been a pity if I'd had to turn you into a bullfrog, but I was quite running out of patience for a moment there."

The image of a silver-haired bullfrog pointing an arrow at him was quite amusing, and Neville had to bite on his lip to keep from laughing out loud.

"An alarming thought indeed. I cannot be certain that my brothers would have thanked you for it," admitted Haldir.

"Perhaps we would," said another grey-clad elf, not bothering to hide his smile. "Orophin and I have longed to see our fearless brother meet his match. It appears that he now has, good Lady."

The company laughed as he executed a graceful bow in the witch's direction, causing her to blush and his brother to scowl.

"Yes, well, shall we make camp? It's a bit late to go any further tonight, so perhaps you'd be so good as to lead us to your city tomorrow, if you don't mind?" she said, flustered at the realisation she was the only woman amidst the company of several incredibly attractive males (and Neville). The teenager smiled widely, wondering what her husband would say if he could see her now.

Actually, now that he thought about it, what would Gran say? Would she have tried to stop him from leaving? And was Trevor aware that he was gone, too? Did his familiar miss him?

Haldir and the elves agreed to keep guard that night, so he and Mrs Weasley unpacked their tent and erected it within seconds (his Guardian having politely declined the elves' offer to join them in the tree tops - she absolutely refused to 'scale the trees like a monkey'). Their companions declined the invitation to sleep inside the extra one, and three of them made their way back to the boughs of the beautiful trees that so fascinated the teenager, while the rest kept a discreet guard over their little camp.

Neville lay on one of the narrow bunks ten minutes later, covered in a soft, green blanket provided by Cirdan. His thoughts were filled with all that had occurred over the past few hours. It wasn't long before his herbologist's mind fixated on the magnificent trees inside the forest, and he realised that he longed for the light of day so that he might have a better look at them. Well, he would be able to inspect them soon enough for any mysterious magical qualities. They really were like nothing he had ever...

His eyes drifted shut as sleep captured him, leading him into dreams - not of bloodthirsty orcs or over-cautious elves with swords and arrows - but of silvers and golds and bright, shining lights that streamed from magical pendants and protected both him and his slumbering Guardian.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Author's Note:_ Well, battle-scenes aren't my strong point, but I hope to improve as the tale carries on. My Latin is non-existent (and I _mean_ non-existent), so I happily hold my hands up to any errors there too - I just wrote the most Latin-y sounding thing I could for Molly's fictional _Lumos_ spell.

Next: A meeting with the Fellowship and strange happenings near Isengard.

Tune in!

Kara's Aunty :o)


	7. Many Meetings

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. and Lord of the Rings and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

**Credit: **www dot hp-encyclopedia dot com and www dot Tuckborough dot net, www dot sword-play dot net

**Warning: **Rated 'T' for slight swearing later on in the chapter.

**Not Quite A Maia**

**Chapter 7**

* * *

_Third Age: 10th February 3019_

_Lothlórien_

Blimey, these Malfoy look-alikes weren't much for conversation!

After Neville and his Guardian rose the following morning, Haldir and his brothers accompanied them to Caras Galadhon, leaving the others to patrol the forest edge. It had taken a day and a half of marching, climbing and crossing streams before they had finally followed the white path around the city borders, crossed the bridge, and entered through the gates of the forest city.

But they hadn't spoken much at all except to point out views of note, such as Cerin Amroth, and to enquire after their guests' comfort, which was a shame, because Neville really wanted to get some sort of idea about the people he was to meet and protect.

"Never mind, dear," Mrs Weasley had consoled him as they crossed the Celebrant (on a magically conjured and _very_ broad plank of wood - the others could keep their rope-bridge). "It's probably for the best. The elves are trying to get us there as fast as they can, so we'll have to make allowances for the lack of conversation. Anyway, we don't want to arrive with any pre-conceived notions of people, and this way, we'll be able to judge them for ourselves."

She had a point, he supposed, although when they passed through the city gates late the next evening, he did regret not pressing the brothers for a bit more detail on the Lord and Lady at least. All Haldir had mentioned about Galadriel was that she was fair, wise and powerful.

Which was not much to go on, really.

The 'heart of Elvendom on earth', as Haldir had wistfully described it from Cerin Amroth, was like a great, circular expanse of the enormous, silver-barked, gold-bedecked trees that had been prolific throughout the forest, only _much_ taller. Mellyrn, they were called. In their branches, far above ground, were tree-houses of sorts, but very grand and intricate, and sturdy enough to support the weight of many people and all their furnishings.

Neville and Mrs Weasley were led up a broad, white ladder on the tallest of these, passing through several dwellings on either side as they climbed. By the time they reached the oval chamber at the top several minutes later, he was feeling a bit exhausted - and poor Mrs Weasley looked like she might collapse.

"Blimey," he gasped, sweat pouring down his face, "haven't you ever heard of stairs?"

Too tired to admire the silver-and-green walls or the golden roof of the natural chamber, and far too winded to pay attention to the many elves watching in curiosity, he opened his knapsack and removed one of the jars Cirdan had given them. Conjuring a cup, he poured some quinberry juice into it and offered it to the scarlet-faced witch.

"Th ... thank you ... Neville ... dear. Good heavens!"

She gulped the tart liquid down in one while he offered Haldir and his brothers a taste.

"Nectar from the Grey Havens - a rare delight! This was the Shipwright's gift to you, yet you offer it freely?"

"Well, he gave it to us to perk us up on our travels," replied Neville, "and if climbing halfway to the moon doesn't require perking up, then I don't know what does! Anyway, it's our pleasure to share it, especially after you were all so kind to lead us here."

A voice interrupted him. "We may talk of refreshments after introductions, young Wizard."

Neville's head swung round; standing to his right, before a pair of very elegant chairs, were two of the tallest elves he had yet seen. The male was silver-haired, the female golden, and both were dressed in shimmering white robes. They were almost as regal as the Valar and bore a similar aura of ageless wisdom. Embarrassed at being caught pouring drinks before he even said hello, he hastily sealed and stuffed the jar of quinberry juice into his bag (much to Haldir's disappointment) and allowed himself to be escorted to the Lord and Lady of the forest alongside Mrs Weasley.

"Er, sorry about that, it's just ... well, we don't do much climbing of trees where we come from, and Mrs Weasley was knackered - I mean, a bit tired after that climb."

"Your concern for your Guardian and the selfless manner in which you offered the Lindon delicacy to others touches our hearts, mortal Wizard. It bodes well for the Fellowship that he who claims to be their new protector should be so considerate," replied the Lord. "I am Celeborn, Lord of this Realm, and this is the Lady Galadriel, my wife." He indicated the ageless beauty before him while Neville chewed over his words.

_Claims_ _to be their new protector_? Did the bloke not believe him? How did he know why Neville was here anyway - he hadn't had the chance to explain himself yet. Had the Valar managed to send a post-owl after all?

"Nay, son of Longbottom," came the ethereal voice of the Lady. "We have other means of gathering information, not unlike your messenger birds. The Eagles sometimes call upon us with news of import - and there is also the Mirror."

This Middle Earth lot weren't half fond of their magic mirrors. And how did Galadriel know what he'd been thinking?

The beautiful lady smiled at him and, suddenly, memories of the past few months flashed through his mind with rapid-fire quickness, leaving him a little dizzy until, finally, a new image appeared: he saw a vicious battle being fought by a great wall with gaping holes. Hundreds lay dying or dead around it; orcs of all sizes poured through the breaches slaying men and ... were those _boys? _Fire raged in stone halls and the screams of people trapped within their chambers echoed through his head. He felt an overwhelming desire to rush to their aid. But then a road appeared out of nowhere offering him a way back to his own world, where he saw Gran poking her head through the bedroom door to assure herself that he wasn't troubled by nightmares; his greenhouse stood tantalisingly accessible, with its myriad of plant life eagerly awaiting his green-fingered attentions; the new-found calm of a hard won peace was a step away on the road leading back home, if he moved his foot in the right direction.

And then he realised: the elf-woman was testing him!

He hovered for a split-second, torn between what was and what may be, before shaking his head and dispelling the vision. "That's enough! I'm not going anywhere. Mrs Varda _asked_ for my help and I agreed, and if my help's good enough for her, then, with all due respect, it should be good enough for you. Or did you test Gandalf like this?"

Grey eyes studied him solemnly and Neville found that he was annoyed by her intrusion. He was also tired of having to prove his character to strangers whose deities had asked for his help. As a guest in her home (and an uninvited one at that), he knew that it would not be polite to challenge her outright, but that didn't mean she had his permission stroll through his inner thoughts whenever she felt like it - that was just plain rude.

"Gandalf the Grey was known to us, son of Longbottom. You and your Guardian are not. Do you propose we blindly accept any that would seek to replace him? This world is at war and we must be cautious in whom we place our trust. I merely wished to ascertain that you have earned it. Do not be so swift to take offence."

"No disrespect to you, Lady Galadriel," began Neville firmly, "but where I come from, people who walk uninvited into other peoples' thoughts usually do so for questionable purposes. I'm not saying that's your intention; the Valar vouched for you, after all, as did Cirdan the Shipwright - who says 'hello', by the way - but if you'd _asked_ for my permission first, I would have said yes. I've got nothing to hide and neither does Mrs Weasley. It's just unnerving and a bit annoying not to have a choice in the matter."

He could almost swear she was trying to hide a smile, but didn't know if she was laughing at him or with him.

"As for your war, we know about that. It's why we're here," he continued. "Look, we're not trying to replace Gandalf - from what I've heard of him, nobody could. And I'm not saying we're as good as him, or better, or anything like that. I think our magic is completely different from his, anyway, so who knows if we're even up to the standard with Middle Earth wizards."

Neville took a bold step forward and Celeborn's brow lifted surprise. "But we've fought a Dark Lord before, so we've got some idea what we're doing. And that feeling you get when the git finally curls up and dies ... To know that he's gone for good and that your family and friends - or what's left of them - can finally live their lives in peace and prosperity ... _That's_ something worth fighting for. It's worth dying for. I'm not saying I'm all powerful or all wise - I'm only human, and I'm only seventeen. But I might have some skills the Fellowship could use, such as they are. That's why the Valar asked for my help. Now I'm offering it to you and those that want to destroy Sauron forever."

Galadriel didn't bother to hide her smile anymore - she positively beamed at him. "Mortals of this world call the Firstborn wise and perhaps we are. Our lives are endless Ages of time that stretch behind and before us and we have years untold to accrue wisdom that generations of Men could never hope to have. Yet for all our knowledge and lore, it never ceases to amaze me that a mortal, whose life is but a drop in the Sea compared to our own, can display the perception of our most Wise, and that at a mere seventeen Winters of Men."

She glanced at her husband, who spoke next.

"What can you offer the Fellowship in their time of need?"

Good grief. Hadn't he already told them that? Oh, well ...

"We offer our wands and our commitment to your cause."

He hoped Mrs Weasley didn't mind him speaking for her too and was relieved when she squeezed his arm in support.

"And why do you wish to do so when you both may return to the free world that you have already spilled blood for?"

"Because we were asked to and because it's the right thing to do. We've got the chance to help the people of your world experience the same freedom we've just won. Who are we to turn away when our help could mean the difference between freedom and slaughter?"

Celeborn addressed Molly next. "Daughter of Prewett, why would you fight so soon when your heart still aches for the loss of a most beloved child?"

Neville could have happily punched the heartless git. But Mrs Weasley raised her head defiantly, refusing to let her tears fall.

"I can't let Neville traipse around a strange world by himself! Why, he's only the same age as my Ron, and I wouldn't let _him_ do it either. I may have ... I ..." she trailed off, fighting to control her grief.

Right! That's it! That heartless, poncy blond aristocrat was two seconds away from eternal baldness! How _dare_ he deliberately upset his Guardian!

Luckily for Celeborn, Mrs Weasley mastered her emotions with a Herculean effort and continued. "I may have lost Fred, but I can't allow Alice and Frank to lose their only child if there's anything I can do to stop it. Neville might not my son, but I'm still a mother. Losing a child is the worst thing that's ever happened to me, and if I have to walk all the way to Mordor to finish off your Dark Lord and spare Neville - or anyone's son, come to that - then I'll bloody well do it! I can't bear the thought of another parent living through this nightmare."

Her words echoed through the chamber, though Neville didn't notice the reaction of the others; he was too busy staring at Mrs Weasley in awe.

"It's also quite fun to hex those smelly orcs into oblivion," she added, raising a laugh in the chamber.

"Then I name you both Elvellon - friend of the Elves - for your courage and humility," announced Celeborn, and Neville grudgingly changed his mind about the eternal baldness.

"That's very nice of you, dear."

Galadriel's grey gaze fell on the teenager once more. "Your eyes have seen struggles in your own world which compare to our own, and you have risen to every challenge thrust upon you with determination and purity of heart." She walked towards him and lifted her hand, tracing the scars on his brow and cheek. It made him extremely self-conscious. "Your valour and honour are written upon your very face. I will not intrude upon your thoughts again, young Wizard, or those of your Guardian."

Thankful that he'd past the worst stages of adolescence (and therefore not completely humiliated himself in the eyes of the lovely elleth) he smiled at her in gratitude.

"Now that we are certain of your allegiance, there is one here who would meet with you, son of Longbottom, daughter of Prewett, both favoured of the Valar," said Galadriel.

"Favoured of the Valar, dear?" asked Mrs Weasley, puzzled.

Galadriel pointed at her breast. "You carry the Light of Varda with you. Its power was seen by all two nights since, when you banished the Enemy from our borders. This gift was bestowed upon you by one who would see you protected above all others."

"Well, actually, she did that for Neville," replied Mrs Weasley, glowering at her charge. "He asked that they protect _me_ while I protect _him_, silly boy! As if I can't take care of myself. It should be him wearing this necklace."

She continued to vent her opinion on his 'devious ways' as she unbuttoned her coat to show Varda's gift to her hosts. Elven lamps caught the sparkling pendant in their glow, and it dazzled the entire chamber with its brilliance.

"Praise the Valar! I had not thought to see such a sight this side of the Sundering Sea," cried Celeborn, while all the elves present glowed in response to Varda's gift.

"Yet, here it lays upon your breast," said Galadriel softly, attempting to lift the gem at the witch's throat, with no success. "It binds itself to you in a most peculiar manner, daughter of Prewett," she added, perplexed.

"What? Oh, the Sticking charm!" A quick wave of Mrs Weasley's wand allowed the elf lady to hold the gem for a moment before replacing it gently on the witch's bosom. With an elegant turn of her heel, the elf stood once more at her husband's side.

"Come forth!" she commanded in a regal voice. Much to the visitor's surprise, a tall man with a dark beard and grey eyes stepped out from behind two elves at the back of the chamber. His long legs carried him over to the visitors, where he stopped before them. "This is he who would meet with you."

The man offered a polite bow, which Neville and Mrs Weasley responded to in kind. "Greetings, son of Longbottom, daughter of Prewett. I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, leader of the Fellowship you seek to assist."

"You're the heir of Isildur!" cried Neville in relief. "Oh, it's really good to meet you, sir."

Grabbing the surprised man's hand, he proceeded to pump it up and down enthusiastically. "I can't tell you what a relief it is to finally meet someone from the Fellowship. Honestly, it feels like we've spent forever trying to get here, though it's probably only been a couple of days."

"It is a pleasure to meet you also, Master Longbottom. I have never before met a Wizard of such young years - and never in all my days have I met a woman whose power was equal to one." The man regained his hand from Neville and held it out to Mrs Weasley, but instead of shaking hers as the boy had his, he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it gently.

"Oh, there now, Aragorn, dear," said the flustered woman, scarlet with embarrassment. "No need for that. Are the rest of your friends here, too? The sooner we meet them, the better."

"A wise idea, my Lady. But the hour is late and the Hobbits and Gimli are abed. No doubt Boromir shall soon follow. Legolas keeps watch over the city this night and will not return until morning. It may be wiser for you to seek your rest also. We shall make introductions in the morn, if that meets with your approval?"

It sounded like a good idea to Neville and he said so.

"Then, son of Longbottom, daughter of Prewett, allow Aragorn to show you to your beds. It is our honour to offer Varda's Chosen One and his Guardian the hospitality of the Elves of Lothlórien, though it may not be for many more nights. Sleep well, mortal Wizard, mortal Witch."

With that, the Lord and Lady bid them goodnight and they left the chamber with Aragorn, very thankful to be going _down_ the ruddy ladder this time.

**XXX**

Neville slept very well that night, thank you very much. Even better than he had the previous two nights in the comfortable (if slightly bland) tent.

The travellers had been shown to a pavilion erected solely for the use of the Fellowship. Inside were several soft couches, some of which were already in use as beds. A few curly heads could be seen sticking out near the edges, and – much to Neville astonishment – a few curly-haired _feet_ too. Were these people hairy all over? It was difficult to tell through all those blankets.

Despite the hirsute hobbits and unholy noise of a snoring dwarf (Neville hit him with a discreet Silencio), as soon as their heads hit the pillows, both wizard and witch fell asleep.

The following morning brought a bright new dawn, and Neville stirred lazily on his couch. He would have been thrilled to carry on snoozing, there being no danger of Gran banging on his bedroom door, were it not for the fact that his peace was currently being disturbed by unknown visitors. Their lilting tones refused to let him fall back into slumber.

"Do you really think he's a Wizard, Frodo?" said a curious voice.

Neville could sense its owner nearby, but was content let him hover undisturbed for a bit before opening his eyes. It might be good to let them have a look first - that way, he wouldn't have to worry about them staring as much when he woke up.

"Pippin, move back. Can't you see he's sleeping. They arrived very late last night, or so Aragorn said, so he must be tired still. Let's go out and help Sam make breakfast. The Wizard can join us when he awakes."

"But Frodo, he looks like a tweenager. How can he be a Wizard when he looks no older than twenty-five? At least Lady Molly looks old enough to be a Wizard."

_Twenty-five_? Bloody hell! Neville may have lived through a war, but he didn't look _that _old. Whoever this Pippin was, he'd be happy to show him how much of a wizard he was by turning him into a frog. Or maybe a toad. Or maybe neither – his Transfiguration skills weren't quite up to it yet.

"Lady Molly is a Witch, fool of a Took," replied the Frodo-voice in fond exasperation. "Or didn't you notice her womanly shape?"

_What_? This Frodo was going on about Mrs Weasley's 'womanly shape'? Right, he'd _really_ need to brush up on those Transfiguration skills.

"Of course I know she's a woman, Frodo. I've just never met a Witch before. I only meant that she_ looks_ to be about the right age for a Wizardly person. Well, perhaps even _she_ doesn't look quite as old as Gandalf, but she's nearer it than this boy. Do you really think he can do magic?"

The Pippin-voice was sceptical, and Neville had the sudden urge to laugh at the cheeky sod, who sounded even younger than_ him_. He groped under the pillow for his wand, ready to have a little fun. Cracking open an eye, he saw a slender, fresh-faced youth hovering over the couch, inspecting him closely. Behind him, the other one - Frodo - was tugging at the youth's elbow and trying to make him to leave.

Neville smiled as the youth lifted the blankets from his feet.

"Look at his feet, Frodo! He's got clothes on his feet - and they're moving!"

Ah, Pippin had apparently discovered his Gran's fondness for Auror-themed sleepwear and smalls (her favourite Christmas gift to him these past two years). Neville usually accepted them with a dutiful smile, but he'd never be joining the Auror's illustrious ranks, no matter how many hints she dropped.

"See? Look: Wizards casting spells on each other!" Pippin hopped with excitement and tugged at Frodo's arm. "Get Merry, Frodo! Go get him and Sam! We need to show them these ... these ... what _are _those things, Fro? Why does he put them over his feet? Do Aragorn and Boromir wear things like that? I can't tell for certain because I've never seen them with their boots off."

"Peregrin Took, put that blanket down instantly!" hissed Frodo. "And they're socks. You've seen socks before, surely? You must have noticed your Buckland cousins wearing them under their boots?"

"Well, no," said Pippin, quite miffed that he'd been denied the chance of studying Neville's socks in more detail. "Only queer folk wear boots, you know, and Bucklanders that indulge in sock-_and_-boot-wearing are too queer to be related to me."

Oh, really? Neville took aim at the cheeky hobbit's feet.; a great yell echoed through the airy pavilion.

"Aargh! Frodo! Frodo, look! My feet!"

Pippin was now sporting the very socks he had been admiring a few seconds earlier. His large feet were crammed into them, toes bulging at the seams, and it looked like the socks - although a decent size ten on an adult human male - were far too small for the otherwise tiny hobbit.

The youth whirled round (as best he could) and yanked the covers off Neville's feet: they were bare. It was too much for the teenager. Laughing heartily, he pulled himself up and nodded his head at Pippin's latest acquisitions. "Only queer folk wear socks, eh?"

The astonished hobbits, taken aback at the unexpected sight of a laughing Neville, soon joined in when they realised he meant no harm. Pippin waddled up to him and bowed smartly.

"Hullo there. I'm Peregrin Took at your service and your family's, and that's Frodo Baggins, my older cousin," the hobbit announced merrily, pointing behind him. Frodo bowed politely. "Can I keep these?"

Pippin pointed at the socks and eyed Neville hopefully.

"Course you can," laughed the teenager. "I'm Neville, Neville Longbottom. At your service, too." He rose from the couch and bowed in kind. "Do you know where Mrs Weasley is? And everyone else?"

"They're outside at breakfast. Lady Molly is making bacon and eggs with Sam," Frodo informed him. His response was softer, more reserved than his cousin's, though Neville was hardly surprised, given what Frodo bore. In fact, he had to admire the elder hobbit for managing to function as well as he did, considering that the One Ring was constantly, actively trying to win a hold on his mind.

Frodo was now staring at his cousin in mild exasperation. "Pippin, you shouldn't ask such impertinent questions. Give Neville his socks back!"

Pippin looked crestfallen.

"Oh, that's all right, I've got plenty more where they came from," said Neville quickly. Pippin brightened immediately, and Frodo appeared relieved that they hadn't inadvertently offended the wizard.

"Well, then," said the teenager with a smile, "I suppose we'd better go and join the others before they eat everything, don't you think? I don't know about you two, but I'm starving!"

Spotting an elegant jug and bowl and some soft towels on a low table nearby, he headed for them and quickly washed his face and hands, then straightened his clothes, determining to change only after he'd fed his rumbling stomach.

The trio left the pavilion and Neville was shown a table and benches situated in the clearing opposite which already boasted several occupants. He was grateful for the hobbits' cheery conversation as they approached it, because he was suddenly feeling really nervous about meeting the others. Pippin chattered away happily, stumbling along on his sock-encased feet. Neville spied Mrs Weasley dishing out bacon and eggs, and the scent of her cooking floated up his nose and circled his heart enticingly. It was astonishing how at ease she looked in this strange place as she slapped eager fingers from heaped plates.

"Wait just a minute, dear. Neville and your friends are on their way - you can wait another sixty seconds, can't you? It's only polite."

"Forgive me, my Lady," replied a dark-haired man. "I have not smelled something this good since I left Gondor many months ago, and I was merely eager to taste your excellent fare."

Another hobbit, a round, fair-haired one paused in the act of placing a warm loaf on the table and shot the man a glare.

"I mean, I have not smelled something this good since Sam made sausage and eggs at Hollin," amended the man contritely, and the hobbit - Sam - gave a satisfied grunt before setting the loaf down.

"Good morning, Neville!" cried Mrs Weasley, spying his approach. She circled the table and enveloped him in a warm hug. "Watch out for the dwarf, Gimli," she whispered in his ear. "Apparently you cast a Silencio on him last night before you went to bed and he woke up this morning before you removed it. He spent almost an hour wondering why no one was paying any attention to what he said until he realised they simply couldn't hear him."

Oh no! He'd forgotten about that!

Neville shot the dwarf a surreptitious glance, and was quite alarmed by what he saw: clad in mail, armed with axes, and covered in bushy red hair, the dwarf's keen brown eyes were currently narrowed at him in suspicion.

"Eh, right, thanks." Swallowing, Neville approached the dwarf cautiously. "Hello. I'm Neville. Erm, I'm really sorry about that little misunderstanding. You'd think I'd be used to snores, having shared a dormitory with Ron Weasley for years. I hope I didn't alarm you too much."

The hairy being seemed mollified by the teenager's sincere apology. "No real harm done, lad. Mayhap that is the most unusual encounter I have ever had with a Wizard, and certainly the spell could have been a lot worse."

"We should thank you, really," said another hobbit. "That's the best night's sleep any of us have had in weeks! I'm Merry, at your service and your family's."

"Hello, Merry," answered Neville, smiling. "And you must be Sam?" The portly hobbit blushed and nodded. Gimli glared at Merry.

"Boromir of Gondor, young Wizard," said the dark-haired man whose hand Mrs Weasley had slapped moments before. Boromir bowed courteously. He indicated the head of the table with a wave of his hand. "I believe you already know Aragorn. Legolas will join us when he returns from his watch."

Aragorn offered Neville a friendly smile.

"It's nice to meet you all," said Neville, embarrassed at being the centre of attention. He took a seat, and Mrs Weasley had soon placed a steaming plate of bacon and eggs in front of him.

"Eat up, dear. We have a busy day ahead. I plan to teach you Apparition after breakfast and everyone is very interested to see how it works."

"Really? That'd be great!"

A shameless lie. Neville was not thrilled about the prospect of Apparition, but after the last two side-alongs had taken so much out of the matronly witch, he felt it was his duty to at least master the basics and save her any further discomfort.

He chewed on a slice of bacon, relishing the salty taste and wondered when he'd get the chance to speak with the Fellowship individually to find out more about them. Aragorn, who was currently engaged in conversation with Mrs Weasley, seemed friendly enough. He hadn't really spoken much with the man the night before though, and wondered what he was like. Gimli had stopped eyeing him suspiciously but was too busy tearing into his breakfast to offer any small talk. The other dark-haired man - Boromir - didn't look very happy to be there, something which piqued Neville's curiousity; the smile he was aiming at Mrs Weasley in appreciation of her culinary efforts seemed genuine, though strangely absent, leaving the teenager to wonder what was really occupying his thoughts.

Sam presented Frodo with a heaped plate of food and stood watching him anxiously to make sure he ate it. "Go on, Mr Frodo. It's not often that we have breakfast cooked for us by someone as grand as a Witch, sir. I bet it tastes like magic!"

Neville grinned, touched by both the hobbit's obvious admiration for his Guardian and for the devoted care he showed his employer.

"I'll eat when you do Sam, so sit down and take your own breakfast," replied Frodo with a twinkle in his eye. Sam smiled and happily complied.

Merry took a seat beside Neville while Pippin decided to entertain the gathering with his new socks. Gimli nearly spat his eggs out when the youth shoved a leg on the table, allowing the dwarf to better admire his magical footwear until Mrs Weasley rapped it sharply with a spoon.

"Sit down and eat your breakfast before I hex your feet off! Feet on the table, indeed!" She shook her head in disgust as Aragorn and the others covered their mouths to hide their amusement. Pippin, completely unfazed, happily squeezed himself between Boromir and Gimli.

"So you're here to protect us are you? Where do you come from?" asked the inquisitive youth.

Hmm. Neville wasn't quite sure how to answer that. Would they know what he meant by 'the far reaches of Time and Space'? Or would it just be easier to say he came from a bed in Yorkshire?

"Well, I come from a place very much like this," he answered after some thought.

"What, like Lothlórien? You don't look much like an Elf, begging your pardon, Mr Neville," said Sam shyly.

"It's just 'Neville', and no, not like Lothlórien: more like the land bordering it. My home has hills and mountains, too. And there's a big forest near my school, though no elfs live there – well, none like yours. We do have our own elfs inside the school, though. They make all our meals."

Perhaps he shouldn't have said that ...

"What's a school? And why do Elves make your meals?" asked Pippin, wide-eyed. All eyes fastened on the teenager in curiosity.

"A school is where people send their children to receive a formal education," he replied, shifting uncomfortably under his companions collective scrutiny. "And our elfs usually work for Wizarding households; keep the house clean, cook meals, laundr clothes, that sort of thing."

"Elves working _for_ Wizards?" demanded a cool voice behind him. Caught off guard, Neville nearly jumped out of his skin. He turned to discover (yet another) regal blond regal elf had joined the gathering. The newcomer stood with his arms crossed, and wore a rather haughty frown on his fair face. "Surely, you mean working _with_ Wizards?"

"Hullo, Legolas! Did you have a nice time in your tree-house?" enquired Merry.

"It is a talan, young Brandybuck," retorted the elf, whose piercing gaze never wavered from Neville.

Neville could have kicked himself. Why couldn't he keep his mouth shut? He was supposed to be ensuring the Fellowship worked as a team, not making enemies left, right and centre.

"The elfs in our world are completely different from yours, Mr Legolas. In fact, the only thing you have in common with them is a name, and even that's not entirely true. In our world, they're known as house-elves. They're perhaps a bit smaller than hobbits and have overlarge, quite hairy ears and they wear towels in place of clothing. They bind themselves to a family and spend their lives in their service."

One blond brow arched in disbelief. "An Elf, in the service of a family? Have they no free will? Do they not possess homes or families of their own?"

"Now, now, dear. Don't take offence. As Neville said, the only thing you have in common with them is the name of your race. Otherwise, you're no more like them than a hobbit is like a dwarf."

"That's true," supplied Neville, keen to clear the air. "And house-elves are magical creatures too; there are even a few who are free. I used to know a free elf: Dobby. But he died saving my friend ..."

An unexpected pang of sorrow hit him in the stomach as Neville realised he'd never see the effusive house-elf again. He'd got to know him quite well during the rare times he was able to smuggle food up to the Room of Requirement, before Neville discovered the passage that led to Aberforth's flat during his last year at Hogwarts.

"Dobby was my friend," he said softly. "He saved my life, too. You see, house-elves, as a rule, don't like to be free. They prefer the stability of a life in service. It's what they live for; a matter of pride to them, and they really don't care whether you or I understand that or not. There's nothing worse for a house-elf than to be presented with an item of clothing by their master. It sets them free, you see, and for them, to be free is to be unwanted and useless, and to be disgraced in front of their peers."

The Fellowship was listening intently.

"But Dobby was different. His master, Lucius Malfoy, was a right git who hit him all the time. Dobby wanted nothing more than his freedom. During my second year at school, Harry Potter tricked Malfoy into setting him free and I've never seen a happier house-elf in my life! He didn't care that his fellow elves thought he was mad. Professor Dumbledore gave him a job in the school kitchens and Dobby was thrilled because he got paid for it - he was treated like a free person. He worshipped Harry for liberating him and he was always happy to do what he could to make the rest of us comfortable - even when Voldemort's followers came to the school and started torturing us. He spied on them for us and brought us information that helped us beat them. Dobby was my friend, but I don't think I ever told him that."

He stumbled to a halt. "I should have told him. I should have said 'thank you' instead of just taking him for granted."

A hollow feeling had replaced the pleasant fullness that Mrs Weasley's breakfast had furnished his stomach with moments before.

"There, there, dear. I'm sure Dobby knew that you cared for him." Mrs Weasley patted his back and handed him a cup of tea while she glared at Legolas in a very disapproving manner. The elf had the grace to blush.

"Forgive me, young Wizard, my Lady. I did not realise there was such a vast difference between us, and it was not my intent to cause you pain. Allow me to make amends by offering the hand of friendship. I am Legolas of the Mirkwood Forest."

"Prince of the Mirkwood Forest," amended Merry with a wink as Legolas clasped Neville's arm in greeting. Turning, Legolas then bowed elegantly at the matronly witch.

"It's all right," the teenager said, relieved that the misunderstanding had been resolved. "I should have been more careful with what I was saying. Somehow I always manage to say the wrong thing at the right time."

"That's absolute nonsense, Neville Longbottom! Now, drink your tea."

With the air of discomfort dispelled as quickly as it had started, the renewed Fellowship spent a leisurely hour getting to know each other until Mrs Weasley declared the meal over. Sam was eager to help with the clearing of the table and everyone watched in fascination as he handed her dirty plates that she cleaned with Scourgify spells.

Haldir joined them as the dishes were finally cleared.

"Lady Molly, I have been informed by the Lady Galadriel that you are eager to train young Master Longbottom, and that you require a secluded area for this purpose. If you would follow me, you may make use of the archery field."

He led them through the trees and Neville's stomach fluttered nervously at the thought of his upcoming lessons. Brilliant. He got to make a complete twat of himself in front of the very people he needed to impress with his skill and resolve. Malfoy Junior would pay good Galleons to see this ...

**XXX**

Minutes later, the group of friends old and new had left the trees behind them and entered the archery field. It was easily a mile long and half a mile wide, perfect for what was in store, actually. Mrs Weasley beamed in delight and ushered the Fellowship and Haldir to the edge where they all either sat down or (in Boromir's case) lounged nonchalantly against a wooden fence.

Pulling the reluctant teenager some distance away, she grasped him firmly by the shoulders.

"Now, then" she began, shaking him slightly, "I know you're nervous dear, but don't let the audience distract you. Pretend they're no more than the dummies in your hiding room at Hogwarts."

Dummies? Neville threw a dubious glance at the potential king, prince or two, dwarven Lord, Malfoy lookalikes and four very curious hobbits - he seriously doubted he could stretch his imagination that far.

"Pay attention, Neville!" fussed the witch. "Now, do you remember the three 'D's'?"

Recalling Twycross's _Destination, Determination _and _Deliberation_ he nodded. "Yeah. You should know that the last time I tried this, I turned on the spot only to end up falling on my ar ..."

"Yes, yes," Mrs Weasley interrupted him before he could finish. "But you have to imagine yourself disappearing from where you are and travelling to where you want to go before you can ever hope to appear there. It's not simply a case of turning on the spot. Let me show you."

She waved her wand at the other end of the field and one of the targets sailed towards them, landing twenty feet away. Behind them, Neville heard several gasps.

"Now; more than anything, I want to appear before that target. In order to do so, I have to imagine myself disappearing from here, travelling unseen across the distance, and appearing at my goal." She closed her eyes, turned on the spot and, with a soft _pop,_ was gone. She reappeared a second later in front of the target and gave him a cheerful wave.

The Fellowship was astounded: men and elves gaped stupidly, Gimli shook his head in wonder and the hobbits were clapping and cheering.

He sincerely hoped he could earn a similar reaction.

Concentrating on the target, Neville closed his eyes and turned wildly on the spot ... only to fall on his backside (on the very _same_ spot).

Excellent! Gimli was having a right good chortle at his expense. Still, at least the others had the grace to refrain from joining him (for the moment).

With another _pop_, his Guardian reappeared at his side. "Try again, Neville," she said as he picked himself off the grass.

So he did: for the longest hour and a half of his life, Neville made a prize idiot of himself for her sake. But he was getting nowhere fast.

"It's no good, Mrs Weasley," he admitted, exhausted and filthy from landing so often on his back. "Perhaps you could just teach me some useful spells instead - you know, the ones you said your brothers taught you?"

"Why, Neville, you surprise me! Is that the same determination that kept you out of the grasp of Death Eaters in your final year of school?"

"Er, well..."

"Use your imagination, dear! Your Destination back then was the Room of Requirement; your Determination was what brought you there time and again; your Deliberation was what made _you_, above all others, master of the Room's secrets. Or was that just a load of old rubbish Ginny told me?"

"No," he stated firmly, realising what she was getting at. He _could_ do all of those things - had done so often in the past. He only had to apply the principles differently this time.

"Good! Now there's no point on focussing on where you're going until you can imagine how you're going to get there. See your target, imagine yourself spinning towards it, then turn once you're sure you can achieve it."

It still sounded a bit vague to him, but the memory of his flight through Hogwarts' weeks ago gave him a new conviction. He saw the spot he wanted to arrive at and imagined it was the Room. He remembered running through the halls and imagined he was running through the air towards the target, a feeling which sent tingles coursing through his body. Finally, he remembered the ease with which he'd been able to adjust the Room to do whatever he needed - including barring his enemies from it. If he could do that ...

He turned on the spot. An almighty _crack! _filled the air as he finally Disapparated, and a second later the teenager reappeared ten feet shy of his target (minus a shoe).

Well, that could've been worse! Being squeezed into nothingness was not exactly pleasant, but what did that matter when he'd achieved his goal?

His audience sounded even more pleased with his progress than Neville did, and he couldn't stop his grin from widening at Merry and Pippin's wild cheering. Mrs Weasley rushed over (carrying his shoe) and threw her arms around her student.

"Well done, Neville!" she cried, giving him a motherly squeeze. "Oh, very well done, dear!"

Feeling enormously happy, he spent another hour practising under her guidance (in order to improve his aim) while the hobbits and Gimli watched. Aragorn left with the others for a meeting with Galadriel, but would rejoin them again for lunch. Merry and Pippin soon traipsed across the field and were hopelessly trying to Disapparate from one end and reappear at the other. It was very amusing, watching them screw their little faces up and twirl like ballerinas before falling to the grass. The hobbits lamented (very dramatically) at their inability to 'harness their inner wizard'.

"Just think how useful that trick would be at Brandy Hall," gushed Merry, eyes alight. "I could pop right into the kitchen, help myself to all the mushroom omelette I could carry, then pop back out again before Cook even knew what had happened!"

"Then it's a very good thing you're not a wizard, if all you could think of doing with your magic was depriving the rest of your family from their well-earned meals," observed Mrs Weasley with a disapproving frown.

Frodo, Sam and Pippin laughed at the sheepish expression on Merry's face.

"Spoken like someone who doesn't like losing their cakes and pies to greedy fingers, Mistress Molly," chortled Sam.

Mrs Weasley, cocked an eyebrow at the little gardener. "Absolutely. My kitchen is my kingdom. I've rapped the knuckles of many a young rascal who tried to pinch my treacle tart before I was ready to serve it." She wagged a finger at the blushing Brandybuck. "If you tried to Apparate into my kitchen to steal my omelette ... well, let's just say that the Sealing Charm works on more than just jars."

She tapped tapped her mouth with a finger and the hobbit paled.

"You could do that?" asked Merry in horror, fingering his lips worriedly.

She took a step closer to him and he blanched. "I could turn your legs into wheels so that you rolled down the hill and far out of sight of my kitchen. Or make every mushroom that you ever ate from now on taste like ash. I could even have you discover an as yet unknown desire for eating every blade of grass in sight. Would you like me to demonstrate?"

"No!" cried Merry in dismay. "I believe you! I really do!"

"_We_ really do," chimed Pippin in support. "We promise never to take anything from _your_ kitchen that you don't offer freely."

Merry nodded in wholehearted agreement. "Absolutely! Eh, Pip, I think this would be a good time to take Boromir up on those sword-fighting lessons he offered. Shall we go?"

Neville, who had been laughing at their expressions of horror along with Frodo and Sam, wiped his eyes and asked if he could join them.

"Yes, yes. Come on, let's go." Grabbing the taller youth by the elbow, Merry dragged him along as fast as he could, eager to leave the grinning witch as far behind him as possible.

The trio made their way through the trees and back to the main city.

"She's a bit scary, isn't she?" asked Pippin.

"Only if you mess with her food or her family," replied Neville, grinning at him. "Don't worry, she wouldn't really turn your legs into wheels."

"Or make mushrooms taste like ash?" queried a clearly worried Merry.

"No."

"Or make us like eating _grass_?"

"No."

"Or seal our lips shut?"

"She might do that if you didn't stop talking all the time."

The hobbits (for whom talking was second only to eating) looked distinctly worried and remained suspiciously quiet for the remainder of the walk.

**XXX**

Having located Boromir and made his own request for sword lessons, Neville found himself on the practice field later that same day, though this time his audience was smaller; only Aragorn and Legolas, as well as the two (still not very chatty) hobbits.

"So, you wish to learn the art of sword fighting?" asked the sombre Gondorian nobleman.

Stupid question really - that was why he'd come here in the first place. Neville humoured the serious man with a firm nod of his head. "I do."

"Where is your weapon?"

"Oh, right. Just a minute." Dropping his knapsack, Neville dug through it and carefully extracted 'his' weapon. The onlookers watched in silent wonder as he pulled the magnificent Sword of Gryffindor free and took a few (poncy) swings at the air with it.

"A mighty weapon!" declared Boromir. "Are those jewels on its handle?"

"Erm, yeah. This was Godric Gryffindor's sword, made by Ragnuk the First. Goblins are quite fond of decorating their weapons."

"_Goblins_ made this sword?" demanded Legolas in disbelief.

Neville recognised that look. "I take it you have goblins here too?"

They nodded in disgust.

"Well, I don't think they're the same kind of goblins that we have. Ours are very powerful, very old and very skilled at crafting weapons and silverware. Their wares are very highly prized."

"'Tis a thing of beauty," the normally stony-faced Boromir murmured in admiration. "Have you had cause to wield it before?"

Oh, couldn't they just get on with the lesson?

"Just to cut the head off a really big snake."

The men and the elf eyed him in pity.

"Let us see that we put it to better use than ridding the land of a few unlucky rodents. Take your stance!" barked Boromir suddenly, making Neville jump. The others withdrew to a safe distance.

_Stance_, wondered the teenager. _What stance?_ He stared blankly at the Gondorian.

"Er, what?"

"Your stance. How do you stand in defence when an opponent attacks?"

"Well, usually I just whip out my wand and conjure a Shield."

Boromir rolled his eyes. "And what if you have no 'wand' with which to defend yourself?"

The thought was so outrageous that Neville actually laughed. "Don't be daft. A wizard _always_ has his wand."

The man didn't look too thrilled at that. Perhaps Neville shouldn't have laughed? Or called him daft? Boromir was wielding a rather dangerous looking sword of his own, after all - and _he_ knew how to use it.

"Imagine, for one moment, that you were without it," said Boromir darkly, looking like he'd very much enjoy shoving his sword into Neville's stomach. "What would you do?"

_Run_? No, best if he didn't say that out loud.

"Well, I have some very handy plants in my bag ..."

"I highly doubt either a fern or a rose will successfully defend you from a horde of oncoming orcs!" said his instructor scathingly.

Neville scowled. What. A. Git.

"Who said anything about ferns or roses? I've got some very nasty Bubotubers in my bag that will make you break out in big yellow sores," he replied smugly.

Boromir was momentarily speechless, then, "I know of no such plants. But that is beside the point! You will not have time to go digging around in your magical bag in the midst of a battle. You must learn to wield your other weapon effectively. That _is_ why you requested this lesson, is it not? If I am in error, then perhaps you would prefer to seek out Master Gamgee? I believe he is as skilled a gardener as any these lands can boast. Perhaps _he_ can teach you how to fight with flowers?"

Neville didn't know who 'Master Gamgee' was, but he didn't like the man's tone - neither did Merry or Pippin.

"That's not fair, Boromir! Sam's not bad with a sword and you know it! He was the first person to hack a tentacle off the Watcher back at Moria, and that was before anyone else even saw it! And let's not forget the orcs he slew _inside_ the Dwarf city," protested Merry, suddenly finding his voice again.

"Forgive me, Meriadoc, Peregrin," offered the Gondorian a little shame-facedly, "I meant no slur on your excellent friend. Master Gamgee may never be a truly great swordsman, but it cannot be denied that he possesses the skill to make use of his blade when circumstance deems it necessary."

Boromir bowed in apology at the pouting hobbits, then turned back to Neville. "Let us see if we can do as much for you, Master Longbottom," he growled, his eyes gleaming wickedly, a dangerous smile tugging at his lips.

Gripping the Sword of Gryffindor as if his life depended on it (and it very well might), Neville faced the infinitely taller man and mentally kicked himself for calling him 'daft'.

**XXX**

Neville was officially knackered. Several hours spent trying to parry and thrust whilst wielding the (really quite heavy, actually) Sword of Gryffindor had worn him out.

It was all he could do to place one leg in front of the other when they returned to the pavilion. His arms felt as if someone had hit them with a Floating charm, rather like Mrs Weasley's glasses had been as they lined up to be washed on the kitchen mantelpiece back at the Burrow.

Dropping the knapsack on the floor, Neville flopped limply onto the soft couch. "I'm knackered."

A curly head popped over the side of the couch. "What's 'knackered' Mr Neville?"

He lifted his head to find Sam watching him curiously. "Me. 'Knackered' is me. It means tired beyond all reason."

"Oh." A look of comprehension crossed the hobbit's face and he smiled. "I'm sometimes knackered too. 'Specially if I've been out in the garden in Summer trimming the roses and such. Bag End's got plenty of rosebushes that need looking after."

Normally, Neville would have been thrilled to talk shop with a fellow herbologist, even a non-magical one, but, as it was, he could barely keep his eyes opened. "'S'nice," he mumbled tiredly, before falling into dreams.

It was a full hour later before he woke up. Gimli, who stomped loudly into the pavilion, shook him roughly by the arm. "Up you get, young lad. Time for lunch. Lady Molly was most insistent that you not spend any longer napping lest it ruin your nightly rest."

Yawning widely, the teenage wizard rolled off the couch and landed on his abandoned knapsack. Brilliant. He was lucky he hadn't skewered himself with his own sword (Boromir would have laughed himself stupid).

Rising from the floor, Neville was relieved to find that, though were still tender, he was in full command of all his limbs once more. After a quick wash at the water-bowl, and a quick change into fresh dark trousers and a stripy green-and-yellow jumper, he left the pavilion soon took his seat at the table with everyone else.

"That's a very interesting ... _thing_ … you're wearing," said Pippin, staring in fascination at Neville's colourful chest.

"It's a jumper. Don't you have jumpers in Middle Earth?" Neville asked, not entirely sure if the cheeky Took was genuinely impressed with his clothes or not.

"Oh, yes. But they're not quite as bright as that," stated the hobbit, waving a pork chop in Neville's direction.

"I hope you have different attire in mind for the journey ahead, young Wizard," commented Boromir. "Any half-blind Orc for a hundred leagues may make a decent target of you otherwise."

"I have some darker clothes that should be fine," he replied, somewhat embarrassed by the attention he was getting.

"Not too dark. 'Tis Winter outside the borders of this land. The Enemy would still be able to make light sport of locating you - and that may lead them to other things." The Gondorian spared a glance at Frodo - or rather, at Frodo's neck.

Fortunately, nobody noticed but Neville, and the covetous look was enough to send a chill down his spine. He hadn't really felt the effects of the Ring since his arrival; but the dark longing on Boromir's, although fleeting, brought the reason for his visit to Middle Earth into sharp focus.

"You needn't worry about that," he said firmly, causing Boromir to draw his eyes from the hobbit and settle them on him instead. "I'm quite capable of rendering myself as unnoticeable as a wallflower."

They stared at each other for a few seconds until Boromir finally grunted and rose from the table. He thanked Mrs Weasley for the delicious repast and left. Neville frowned: he'd have to keep an eye on the Gondorian, it seemed.

Which was a pity. Boromir seemed like a fairly decent bloke, if a bit prone to moodiness. He was good with the hobbits (especially Merry and Pippin) and extremely courteous to Mrs Weasley (which always scored points with Neville). He also seemed like someone who knew his own mind, if his performance during the sword fighting lessons had been anything to go by.

Hmm. Such conflicting sides to his personality. Of course, it could only mean that he was shouldering some stellar responsibilities whilst trying to fight the insidious lure of the Ring.

Taking a bite of his bread and cheese, Neville resolved to get to know the man a little better and see if he couldn't help him lighten the load on his mind a bit.

**XXX**

That afternoon was spent in the company of Gimli, Sam and Frodo. The hobbits were keen to show Neville more of the ethereal elven realm and Gimli seemed happy enough to join them (though he suspected it was mainly because the dwarf might be hoping for a glimpse of Galadriel - he was forever talking about her and, having been smitten in kind by the beauteous Varda, the teenager completely sympathised).

The elves they passed were courteous; offering the hobbits genuinely warm smiles, nodding politely at the dwarf (who growled at them on occasion) and staring with frank curiosity at Neville. Not that he blamed them - he must look very peculiar to them in his dark canvas trousers and bright, stripy jumper.

Not to mention the scars on his face. Still, at least the scratch from the orc arrow had cleared up nicely - thank goodness for Mrs Weasley and her first aid kit.

It wasn't hard to enjoy the impromptu tour of the city. Frodo was an excellent guide, and wonderfully eloquent. He was also happy to share what knowledge he had of Lothlórien with Neville, which gave the young wizard some insight into the realm and its history. There was an air of quiet determination about the Master of Bag End, and although the teenager suspected that every day he held the Ring was more difficult than the last, Frodo was careful not to let it show, preferring instead to dwell on more pleasant occupations while he still could. His fondness for his gardener was apparent - they were more like friends than master and servant. Frodo could certainly show that git Malfoy a thing or two about grace and humility. Neville liked him very much and knew that he would anything he could to protect him.

Gimli spent most of the tour surveying his surroundings intently and didn't say much. Whenever a female elf approached them he would straighten imperceptibly, forcing Neville to hide a grin. Poor sod. The look of disappointment on the dwarf's face when the elleth was revealed not to be the Lady Galadriel was quite amusing, yet Neville couldn't really laugh at him. Gimli may be a bit gruff, but he was affable and managed to make Frodo crack a smile now and again. It was difficult not to like him.

But the person Neville felt the most kinship with so far was Sam. Sam reminded him a bit of Dobby: always eager to please his master, always looking out for him. There was also the whole horticultural aspect to him as well, something they both shared in common. Several times the tour had to be stopped so the little gardener could show Neville the beauty of the Mellryn, and he was more than happy to listen to Sam's happy chatter and finally get the chance to actually touch one of the beautiful trees.

"There's nothing like them outside of Lothlórien, Mr Neville, sir," Sam explained wistfully. "Which is a pity, really. Bag End would look grand with one of these beauties in its garden." The hobbit ran his hands over one silver bole lovingly, and Neville could almost swear the tree swayed in appreciation.

"Not that Bag End's garden doesn't look grand just now, of course. Best in all the Shire, if I do say so myself."

"That's because it has the best gardener in all the Shire to care for it," said Frodo, smiling fondly at his friend. Sam blushed furiously.

"Well, I only do as I ought to, Mr Frodo, no more, no less," mumbled the bashful hobbit.

"I'm a gardener of sorts, too, Sam, so I know exactly what you mean. Still, I think Frodo's right - even Boromir says you're talented," observed Neville, though he onitted to mention that the man had also suggested that Sam fought orcs with flowers. Not that he _really_ believed Boromir had meant it.

Gimli grunted absently and Neville glanced behind him to find that the dwarf had taken to surveying the treetops for his heart's desire.

"Don't you agree, Gimli," he asked mischievously, knowing the bushy-haired dwarf probably hadn't heard a word they'd said.

He was right.

"Agree? Oh yes, indeed. Not bad-looking - despite the fact that they are trees."

Frodo, Sam and Neville laughed conspiratorially at the inappropriate response and Gimli flushed.

"Well, I have had enough trees for one day. Let us return to the others. It must surely be time for the evening meal," said the dwarf, sounding slightly flustered.

"Are you sure you're not part Hobbit, Gimli?" asked Frodo innocently.

"What do you mean, lad?"

"Well, you seem to spend a lot of time thinking about your stomach, when you're not gazing at treetops that is. I didn't know you were as fond of growing things as you are of food. Perhaps there's some Gamgee blood in you?"

Sam laughed outright and Neville's eyed widened appreciatively at the cheeky remark. The deceptively soft-spoken and very gentile Frodo Baggins must have a will of iron to carry a Horcrux-Ring intent on destroying him _and_ still be able to find the humour to tease a love-struck dwarf.

And instead of the gruff dwarf challenging him with a narrow glare (like he had with the teenager after the Silencio incident), Gimli showed his fondness for the Ring-bearer by answering: "'Twould be an honour indeed to call young Samwise family, noble Hobbit that he is, young Master Baggins. But I fear I could never be as enamoured with plants as he."

"Then why were you staring at the treetops? Is there something up there which captures your interest? Or is it _someone_?"

Gimli flushed again. "Nay! I was merely, eh, looking at the sky and, eh, attempting to ascertain the lateness of the hour. 'Twould not do to miss Lady Molly's evening meal. She is making something called 'Sunday roast' and I am most eager to be at the dining area on time for it," he blustered. "Now. if you are quite finished teasing this Dwarf, I suggest we make our way back to the good mistress's table. I for one have no desire to get on the wrong side of such a powerful Witch by turning up late for the meal she has taken such care to prepare for me!"

And, laughing, they followed him as he stomped his way back through the trees to the pavilion.

**XXX**

Sunday roast was a big hit with the Fellowship, as was Mrs Weasley herself. For her part, the flame-haired witch was thoroughly enjoying all the appreciative comments and adoring stares from the hungry males. Gimli declared her the finest cook he'd ever had the pleasure of meeting, next to Sam. High praise indeed and something which caused both her and the hobbit gardener to blush in unison.

Once the meal was over (all too soon for Neville's liking: the hobbits had scoffed an alarming amount of food that put even a dormitory full of Ron Weasleys to shame), Merry and Pippin sprang up to hold the plates while he and Mrs Weasley fired Scourgify spells at them. Everyone laughed at the delighted giggles of the soap-drenched pair; this improvised target practise looked like it might become the favourite part of their daily routine.

Of course, he knew the lighter moments couldn't last forever, but he was determined that they bond with the Fellowship as much as possible before they left. Aragorn had spoken during dinner of a departure in the near future, so everyone was taking advantage of the restful times while they still could.

Everyone except Boromir.

**XXX**

As the days passed and the reality of the journey pressed down upon him, Neville found himself occupied more and more in the archery field under Mrs Weasley's tutelage. Two days after their arrival, he was walking towards it to begin the more offensive type of spells she'd been taught by her famous brothers when he heard raised voices. Unsure of whether or not to continue on his path while the heated discussion was still underway, he stopped to slip behind a tree, hoping whoever it was would leave soon so he could get to the field.

"Nay, Aragorn! It is folly! It would serve us better to wield it ourselves, I tell you. Are we not lords of Men? Do we not possess the righteous courage to bend it to our wills and make it work for us instead of against us?"

"You do not know of what you speak, son of Denethor! The Ring is wholly evil - it serves no master who is not the Dark Lord."

"But without its power my people are lost! Shall I return only tell them that the one who claims to be their king is reticent to do that which is in their best interests? That they are doomed to suffer and die because you will not make the right choice?"

Neville blanched. The desperate words of the Steward's son cut right through him; he had not realised that Boromir was facing such a struggle of conscience. Clearly, the man was desperate to save his people, but it appeared to be at the cost of the Quest. And Aragorn was not amused.

"Enough! I have made my choice. The Quest comes before all else. I know you love the White City and her people, and I honour your commitment to them, but do not let your feelings cloud your judgement. Many suffer in these dark times; that is why we strive to rid Sauron of his evil trinket once and for all. Without it he is doomed and the Shadow which encroaches upon your land will fall into oblivion. I swear to you that I will do all in my power to see your people free again, but I will not allow the Ring to enter through the gates of Minas Tirith. Frodo must complete his mission and I _will _assist him!"

A pause, then: "Take heart, Boromir. With the company of a powerful Wizard and Witch, our Quest has an even greater chance of success than before. Your people will be free again soon."

Heartened by this testament to his talents, Neville peeped around the side of the tree and saw that Aragorn now laid a comforting hand on the other man's shoulder.

But Boromir was having none of it and shrugged himself free. "You place your faith freely in strangers, yet you would shun your own people? You claim to be Isildur's heir, yet not once have I heard you refer to my people as yours. What success do you think this Quest has when all our fates are held in the hands of a hobbit - a myth straight from Gondor's legends? And the powerful Wizard and Witch you speak so highly of? They are little more than a boy and a homely wife, who appear to be good for no more than twirling on the spot and washing dishes! We are waging war against a Dark Lord and all the evil armies of Mordor, not a horde of angry cooks!"

"Why that ungrateful so-and-so!" hissed a voice directly behind Neville. The teenager almost jumped out his skin.

"Mrs Weasley! What are you doing?"

"Catching up on current events, by the look of things," she replied heatedly, glowering unseen at the bickering men. "I've a good mind to hex old misery guts there into the middle of next week!"

"He's only worried about his people. I don't think he means to come across like a ... a ..."

"An ignorant git?"

Did _Mrs Weasley _just call the Lord of Gondor a _git_?

"Look, let's just go back and wait for them to leave," he said, anxious to get her away from the two men before she forgot herself and hit Boromir with a Fire charm or something equally unpleasant.

"Neville, I really think it's time you started calling me Molly, dear. You can't go traipsing around Middle Earth shouting 'Mrs Weasley' every two minutes. Far too many syllables! Every second counts in a war, you know."

The fate of an entire world hung in the balance and she was concerned about the time it took for him to say her name? He rolled his eyes. "All right, fine, _Molly_. Let's just go."

But before they could emerge from behind the tree, she pulled him further back into the shadows as Aragorn stormed past; his face was a picture of fury.

Oh, dear.

Boromir remained by the field, gripping the fence and muttering darkly to himself.

"Look, you go and talk to Aragorn, while I see what I can do about _him_."

Neville jerked a thumb in the direction of the angry Gondorian.

"Why don't I go and talk to him, while you go and speak to Aragorn?" Molly suggested dangerously, fingering her wand.

"Because I'd like to see him live long enough to leave Lothlórien and, right now, I wouldn't trust you anywhere near him!"

"Neville Longbottom!" she hissed in outrage. "Are you suggesting I would harm him?"

"Well, yeah, actually. Are you denying it?"

Molly glared at him and he wondered if he'd gone too far, but really, matters were balanced quite delicately at present and Neville couldn't risk the famous Weasley temper tilting the odds in favour of calamity. She sighed and offered a weak smile.

"Perhaps you're right, dear. I couldn't promise _not_ to refrain from hexing his bits off in the next five minutes if I got too close."

"Thanks Mrs Weas ... er, Molly. I'll go and see if I can make Boromir see sense, or at least coax a smile out of him."

"You're a good boy." She patted him fondly on the cheek and made her way silently back down the path behind the fuming Ranger.

After waiting an extra minute to allow Boromir to get a hold of his emotions, Neville stepped out from behind the tree and walked the remaining steps to the fence on the field's borders.

"Hello."

The dark-haired man spun round, his face tight with tension. He relaxed slightly when he saw who it was. "Master Longbottom, good day to you."

Boromir made to leave, something Neville didn't want.

"I'm just going to practice some offensive spells. Do you want to stay and watch? You've not really seen much of what Mrs Weasley and I can do with a wand."

Other than twirling on the spot and washing dishes.

"I have seen enough," Boromir retorted gruffly, before walking away.

Hmm. That hadn't gone too well. Perhaps he should've been a bit more direct?

"I heard what you said to Aragorn," Neville called after him. It worked: Boromir ground to a halt, but he did not turn around. Neville tried again. "I know what's bothering you."

The latter he added softly, which only seemed to annoy the Gondorian. This time he did turn around.

"What mean you by that? Is it the way of Wizards to spy using unnatural arts?" he queried dangerously, taking slow, deliberate steps back towards the teenager.

"I wasn't using 'unnatural arts' - I heard you from over there," replied Neville, pointing at the trees. Boromir did not look any happier by the revelation.

Time for some diversional therapy.

"You're worried about your city and its people falling to Sauron; about all your friends and family dying at the hands of a Dark Lord who only wants to murder everyone in Gondor that doesn't bow to his will."

Grey eyes flashed and Boromir let loose a bitter laugh. "And what would a child know of such matters? Wizard or not, you are young and inexperienced. You know nothing of suffering and death!"

Neville ground his teeth together to keep from yelling at his angry accuser. "And you know nothing of me," he replied in a flinty voice.

"Indeed? What is there to know? You grew up in a world of Wizards, where every man, woman and child has the ability to protect themselves against their adversaries with the aid of a magic stick. You have been nurtured and encouraged by loving parents and sent off to this 'school' under their guidance to increase your Wizardly arts. You spent a few days hiding in a room from your teachers while cheery Elves supplied you with food. And now you are here: summoned by the very Valar themselves to aid us in washing dishes, of all things. Furthermore, your Guardian bears their particular protection; protection that would see better use on the Peoples of the West. Every breath you draw bears the Valar's favour as long as Lady Molly watches over you. Have I forgotten anything?"

Every cell in Neville's body was screaming out for him to call Molly back there and then and let her hex the git's bits off if she still wanted to. But more was at stake than his desperate need to chuck a wobbly. Still ...

"You are a right arrogant bastard, D'you know that?"

"How _dare_ you speak to me in that way, boy!" barked Boromir, seething with affront. "I am the son of the Steward of Gondor, heir to my father's title and a lord of my people. I am a leader of armies who has fought and won battles uncounted, a slayer of enemies and future ruler of my father's land. My very station commands respect from all who know me, and I will not listen to insubordination from a mere _child_!"

Boromir was livid.

But so was Neville.

"I've had it up to my back teeth with spoiled, pompous arses who think their money and station is a one-way ticket to admiration," he retorted angrily. "Respect is too valuable a commodity for your title to command it or your money to buy it. You have to earn it honestly, with humility and integrity. So far, I've seen very little of either of those assets in you! You stand there, passing judgement on my character like you're some sort of people expert; but you don't know the first thing about me!"

Neville realised he should probably take a breath and calm down, but the anger express had left the station and was steaming its way toward oblivion: he was powerless to stop it now.

"If you did," the irate teenager continued, "you'd know that my parents did not have the opportunity to nurture or encourage me because they were tortured into insanity before I was two years old and have spent most of my life in hospital with no hope of a cure! Every time I visit them, I know that when they see me, they _won't have a bloody clue who I am_! And for your information, the reason they were tortured was because they were prominent defenders of the people of my own world, fighting against our own Dark Lord who wanted to kill anyone that wasn't a ruddy pure-blood. You see, not everyone is a witch or wizard where I come from, and nutters like Voldemort want to kill those who can't boast pure-blood parents like I can. But even being a ruddy pure-blood doesn't guarantee you a hassle-free life because if you stand up against tyranny, you're as good as dead anyway. I've spent the last year of my life living in the hell that used to be my most favourite place in the world: my school. Voldemort put some of his bloody followers there to keep all us kids in line and to hunt down the non-pure-bloods. Teachers made _children_ torture _children_ when they wouldn't bow down and worship the almighty Voldemort. And when the final battle came ..."

He gasped loudly, his cheeks wet with tears of utter fury. Boromir watched in white-faced shock.

"Tell me, Neville Longbottom," he whispered as the teenager slid down the fence to rest on the grass. Boromir joined him.

"When the final battle came, it came to our school. Our Dark Lord brought his army of Death Eaters, giants and werewolves and set them loose on a generation of children. He had already conquered most of the Wizarding World, you see; wiped out entire families who posed a threat to him, kidnapped members of others so their relatives would do as he asked. He put officials under dark spells and murdered Muggles - non-magic people - just for the fun of it. My parents grew up fighting him and they suffered for it. Then Voldemort disappeared. We all thought he was dead because the spell he cast on the then one-year-old Harry Potter backfired on him, but he'd simply lost his body. He couldn't die because he'd split his soul into several pieces and put them in magical objects, so he only needed a while to regain his strength. When he did come back, he spent years hunting Harry down, even though Harry's only a day younger than me. He hunted a _child_ down to kill him and prove that no one could defy him! That's why he came to the school that night - he'd finally found Harry."

Boromir was white with horror, and though his distress made Neville feel a bit guilty, he was at least relieved that the Gondorian had calmed down somewhat. It may be hard to talk about this, but if he could make the man see sense, then it was worth it.

"Harry had spent a year in hiding, tracking down Voldemort's Horcruxes to destroy them - they're the things that held bits of his soul - and he was searching for the remaining ones when he returned to school last week."

"Last week? I do not understand ..."

"For me and Molly, this only happened last week. The Valar pulled us back to the past of your world, but for us, it's still only a week after the end of our own war. Anyway, when Harry came back to Hogwarts my friends and I were really excited to see him. School just wasn't the same place anymore since the Death Eaters arrived: it had become a place of fear and rebellion. All the students sympathetic to Harry and the Light side had been training secretly with me Ginny and Luna, so we _knew_ when we saw him that night that the war would end before morning, one way or another."

"Yet still you fought? Children, all of you, and still you fought?" the man asked.

"What choice did we have? Our parents fought them in their youth so we wouldn't have to. But it didn't turn out quite like they'd planned, so now it was up to us. Anyway, I'd rather die free than live as a slave. Who wouldn't? Yeah, they threatened us, tortured us, killed our parents, our friends, and tried to kill our way of life, but we still fought. What kind of people would we be if we let this final opportunity slip through our fingers because we were scared to make sacrifices? Not that the sacrifices didn't hurt anyway. They always will." he finished, a little despondently.

Boromir's hand descended on his shoulder. "Your parents' poor health pains you, I see."

"Yes," he replied, a hitch in his throat. "But what kind of son would I be if I rolled over and gave in to a madman after all they had done for me, after all they had done for the Wizarding World? It was my honour to stand and fight for what they believed in, because _I_ believe in it too. So did all the friends whose bodies we cleared from the school grounds the morning after the battle. Some were teachers, some were parents, some were friends - not even seventeen years old."

"I owe you a grave apology for my unpardonable manners," said Boromir quietly. "It did not occur to me that eyes so young had seen so much. I crave your pardon, Neville Longbottom."

Neville took a deep breath and exorcised his ghosts. "You don't need to ask, you're already forgiven."

His companion was taken aback by the ready reply. "I have insulted you as none should insult another, yet you offer your forgiveness? Unreservedly?"

He smiled weakly. "We've both lived through wars, Boromir. We know what the fear and anxiety can do to a man: it can make him speak before he thinks, say things he doesn't really mean and then spends a lifetime regretting. But I've learned that life is too short to spend it in regret and I think you know that too."

Grey eyes studied him intently. "You are a puzzle indeed, young Wizard. You have power beyond ordinary mortals and have fought and helped to win a war of your own not a week since. You should be enjoying the fruits of your hard won labours at home, yet you willingly travel to my world to offer your aid in a fight not your own. Either you are very reckless, or very honourable."

"Probably reckless, actually. If my Gran knew what I was doing right now, she'd kill me herself."

Boromir's shout of laughter echoed through the trees, and Neville grinned.

"I see the iron hand of a mother figure is still enough to put the fear of Sauron into any sensible person, even if he is a powerful Wizard," chuckled the Gondorian.

"My Gran could put the fear of Sauron into _Sauron_!" Neville stated wholeheartedly.

And he meant it.

"My own mother died when I was but a child," said Boromir suddenly, wiping the grin off the teenager's face. "Ever since her death, my father has been a changed man. He finds little joy in life now. He even spurns my younger brother, Faramir, who is a good and noble lord, unlike his brother."

"That's not true. I mean, what you're implying about yourself. You might be a little abrupt because you've got a lot on your mind, but you're still good and noble. That's plain for anyone to see."

Boromir laughed again, but this time in self-derision. "Perhaps once I was, young Wizard, but I begin to harbour my doubts on that score now." His hand began to tug at the grass, pulling it out in clumps before discarding it and starting again. "Ever since I became involved in this Quest - nay, ever since I became aware of _it_ - I have felt a change come upon me, one which I do not like."

Neville knew precisely what he was referring to. "When the Valar first brought me and Molly here, they told us the history of the Ring."

Boromir stiffened, but Neville continued.

"They said it was created using the will of the Dark Lord, a bit like Voldemort created the Horcruxes using his own will. And just like the Horcruxes, it was made with purely evil intent. They said it can warp the mind of anyone who's near it and will eventually betray the one who bears it because its desire to return to its true master is overwhelming. No one can wield it to do good, no matter what it tries to make them believe."

He didn't know if the Gondorian was absorbing this; his face had resumed its stony familiarity. Still, at least he hadn't started shouting again.

"Its one purpose at this moment is to get back to Sauron," continued the teenager, "and it will use any means at its disposal to do so. It will taunt and seduce, trick and betray, until it achieves its sole purpose: union with its master. There is only one Lord of the Ring, Boromir, and it's not Frodo Baggins. It can never be him, and it can never be you or I either. It will never do our bidding, no matter how much we might want it to."

Boromir sprang from the ground and began pacing furiously.

"My people will die; my City will fall!"

"They won't."

"How can you speak with such certainty?" barked the man. "Am I weak to wish for the aid it may bring? The aid you claim it will never bring?"

"It _will_ never bring aid. And you're not _weak_, it's the Ring that's _strong_. There's a difference! It's poisoned with a magic neither of us can understand, that's its strength."

"Yet a mere Hobbit can defy it?"

"Hobbits are as different from men as men are from hobbits. You each have strengths the other lacks; you each have failings the other doesn't. There's nothing weak about being different - that was what Voldemort never understood. Don't make the same mistake as him, Boromir, because you are by far his superior."

The man ceased pacing and faced him. "Your faith in me is stronger than that which I bear for myself, my friend. I thank you for it, but I do not think I deserve it." He held a hand up when the boy made a move to protest. "Enough, young Wizard. I have heard your words and will give them much thought this night, that I swear to you. But for now, let us return to our companions, lest they begin to doubt in our existence."

Neville sighed. Oh, well. He supposed he couldn't hope for any better than that. He'd had his say and now only time would tell if he'd been heard. Nodding his agreement, he rose and walked back to the clearing with Boromir, feeling a little apprehensive at what their reception from Aragorn might be like. Hopefully Molly would've had a chance to chat with him by now. He wondered if she'd had any more success with the ranger than he'd had with Boromir.

Speaking of Boromir ...

It appeared Neville wasn't the only apprehensive one. The lordly man looked a bit glum, though he forced his face into a blank expression when he caught Neville staring.

Which was why the teenager was nonplussed, to say the least, when, upon exiting the trees and spying Aragorn sitting on a rock with a pipe hanging from his mouth, Boromir hailed him with a jolly cry.

"Hail, son of Arathorn! Greetings to you this day! I have just spent a pleasant afternoon with our esteemed Wizard companion, and find that I am now in the mood for some Elvish wine and a tale from the Rangers of the North. What say you to a glass of the Lady's finest?"

And he walked straight up to the ranger and slapped him heartily on the back!

"Come now, heir of Isildur; will you not share a glass with your future Steward?" he demanded merrily.

Aragorn nearly choked on his pipe. "Er, I would be honoured to accompany you," he said, looking rather dazed.

"Excellent! Let us see if we can find Gimli and Legolas, perhaps the Hobbits too - nay everyone must join us! Let us drink and be merry! It may be the last we get before we trounce Sauron the Fool into the afterlife; both him and his miserable trinket with him!"

_What the bloody hell?_

Neville stood in open-mouthed shock as Boromir dragged a very confused Ranger of the North into the pavilion in search of a jar and some glasses. He stumbled over to Molly who was busy slicing potatoes for dinner.

"Hello, dear. You seem to have done a splendid job of reasoning with our moody friend."

"I didn't really think I had, to be quite honest," he replied, feeling a little stunned. A roar of laughter echoed from the pavilion.

"Well you must have done something right or it wouldn't have worked so well."

Forehead crinkling in confusion, he studied the witch. "What? What wouldn't have worked so well ... Molly, what did you do?"

Blushing, she attempted a not-very-convincing nonchalant shrug. "Oh nothing much, dear. You did all the hard work."

"_Mrs Weasley_?"

"Oh, why did you have to call me that, Neville? You were doing so very well with 'Molly'"

"What did you do?"

"Well, he looked so glum, traipsing out of the woods …"

"And?"

"Well, I wasn't sure it would work so well. He'd been rather angry earlier on …"

"_And_?"

"Oh, all right then! I hit him with an enhanced Cheering Charm."

"_What_?"

"Well obviously he needed it, dear, if the lone ranger over there was anything to go by. It took me two normal Cheering Charms just to calm _him_ down. _Two!_ Heaven knows what these people are made of! So I had to do some quick thinking to try and come with a modified one for Boromir if there was any chance that he was going to be as difficult to control as his friend. But look!"

She pointed at the two men who were exiting the tent and swigging from a suspicious looking jar. They looked very much like a couple of hardened alcoholics heading off to the Hog's Head.

"Success! Oh I do like to see happy faces! Life's far too short to argue."

He couldn't really dispute that without upsetting her, so he merely watched in wide-eyed astonishment as Boromir and Aragorn trundled merrily off into the distant trees in search of more drinking companions.

**XXX**

Saruman the White frowned at the sky as he attempted once more to contemplate its mysteries. The air around Isengard was thick, though not with the burning of the remnant trees he had ordered pulled from the once magnificent gardens.

A tremor was in the very air.

And it puzzled him. It had started several days ago around mid-afternoon, but he had dismissed it as the downfall of the fool Gandalf.

Yet the tremor persisted.

As a result, the White Wizard was slowly losing his ability to focus on those matters of import that demanded his attention, such as the mounting of his army of Uruk-hai against the Rohirrim. Instead, he found himself obsessing over lore books and star charts in an attempt to glean some meaning from the heraldic vibrations that shook him to his core. Had Sauron found the Ring? Had the unthinkable happened and the Dark Lord been overthrown? Nay, a glimpse in the Palantír had quickly quashed those suspicions.

What was it then? He moved to the iron railing of the balcony and surveyed his realm. No invading forces marched to oust him from his hard won Tower. His own troops currently marched in formation around the Ring of Isengard, readying themselves for the journey ahead to the home of the horse-lords.

Yet this scene of tranquillity failed to soothe his rattled nerves.

And with good reason ...

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Author's Note:_ I was dreading writing this chapter, but it turned out to be quite fun (and quite harrowing at points). I hope it evokes a similar response for you - but perhaps without the harrowing bits…

Please remember that when Middle Earthlings refer to a wizard or elf, they capitalise the first letter, where as HP indigents (usually) don't - I have been following this rule throughout. I hope it doesn't confuse you. Heck, I hope it doesn't confuse me.

Many thanks to everyone who reads, and especially to those (few) of you who leave a review.

Kara's Aunty ;)


	8. Two Worlds Collide Again

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. and Lord of the Rings and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

**Credit: **www dot hp-encyclopedia dot com and www dot Tuckborough dot net. Linby Colliery Welfare Ladies F.C. homepage at ntl world dot com, Wikipedia dot org, multimap dot com www dot highlandstore dot com/acatalog/Kilt_Accessories (which I recommend for the pictures of the male models, if nothing else...)

**Note: **Any repetitive mention of a certain land further down in the chapter is intended with only the deepest affection. It is a country I have always wished to visit, having met and befriended some of its truly wonderful natives, and I have used it in their honour, knowing they would have a good giggle at this cheeky sheila.

**Please review - it really _is_ my only reward.**

**Not Quite A Maia**

**Chapter 8**

_Third Age: 13th February 3019_

_Mount Taniquetil, Undying Lands_

Manwë sat in the beautiful garden off the Hall of Reception where he had welcomed Master Longbottom and Lady Molly. Trailing his fingers through the clear water of the fountain, his brow furrowed in concentration as he strained his senses towards the endless void of Time and Space.

"What dost thou sense, beloved," enquired the soft voice of his wife from the archway to his right.

He replied with a question of his own. "Dost thou not feel it?"

She approached him and took a seat on the edge of the fountain. "I feel naught but thy skin beneath my touch," she informed him, clasping his free hand in her own.

"And yet I tell thee that something is amiss in the Void," he said. "I have suspected it since thy Chosen One departed for the home of the Shipwright. There are forces at work that ought not to be - a Presence ..."

He trailed off, frustrated at his inability to perceive what normally came to him easily.

"Presence? Dost thou sense Olórin? Perhaps he returns to us?"

"Nay. It is not Olórin - at least, I do not believe it to be him. The very nature of the Presence makes it difficult to perceive clearly. I sense confusion, concern."

He tore his gaze from the tumbling water as she knelt before him, took his hands in her grasp and kissed them tenderly.

"There is no other it could be but Olórin, my love. No other Wizard travels through Time and Space at present but he, for we have called the only others to our aid."

"Would that it were so, wife. Do not forget the manner in which they were able to carry their staffs of power and other possessions with them," he said enigmatically.

Varda's head rose and she gazed at him curiously. "But we did not call any other to accompany them. Carrying possessions on their journey here was necessary - bringing another _being_ is a different matter entirely. Thou dost not believe another Wizard was caught in their travels through Time and Space, surely; one for whom we had not planned?"

"Let us hope not. For if that be the case, they have been stranded in the Void for many days and will remain so, unless we send them back or allow them entry."

She rose and took a seat next to her husband once again. "We cannot send them back unless they complete their journey here first. To do so would be fatal."

"I am aware of this. Yet we know nothing of this person. We have not vetted them for entry and know not their character."

"Take heart, my love: it cannot be a person of evil intent. Such a one would require too intimate a proximity with either Master Longbottom or Lady Molly - a feat unlikely if they slumbered in the safety of their homes now that their own war is over."

Varda paused momentarily, mulling over the identity of the unexpected visitor while her husband continued to trail his fingers through the water.

"The boy is young and has not the aura of one who is wed," continued the beautiful Vala. "I do not believe any errant traveller followed him here ... but the daughter of Prewett has a husband."

She trailed off, aghast at the ramifications, and her hand flew to her throat in shock. "Alas, that I had not thought to warn her to keep separate chambers for the night!"

Manwë now clasped his wife's hand, in order to comfort her. "It is done now, beloved. There is naught we may do to revoke it while he wanders still in the Void. We _must_ allow him entry. And once he is here, he will not wish to leave lest he take his wife with him - for that is how I would feel."

She attempted a smile as he raised her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers, echoing her own actions from mere minutes ago.

"Then we have a dilemma, husband. Ought we to send him after her, that he may aid in the Fellowship's protection? The gift of another Wizard may be too tempting to cast aside. Or should we keep him here until the Quest is over lest his concern for her hamper her efforts as Guardian to the Chosen One?"

"Let us first ascertain if he indeed exists where I sense him to be," replied Manwë. "We may evaluate our unexpected guest on his arrival and take proper measure of him at that time."

Rising, he offered his arm to his wife and they entered their halls, heading for the Room of Reception. From there, Manwë called out to the Presence suspended in Time and Space.

And the Valar's surprise was great indeed when the Presence exited the Void when he beckoned, yet did not appear in the Halls of Ilmarin.

"Where is he?" asked Varda in some alarm.

"I know not," said her husband, equally concerned. "He ought to have appeared before us at my call. It is a mystery to me that he does not occupy our Halls, for I have called him to us. He _must _appear! Canst thou explain this mystery?"

Varda's brow creased slightly in reflection. "Nay, beloved. Any being brought to us through the Void from the world of slumber must stand before us before they continue onwards to Middle Earth."

"And what if they were not caught in slumber at the time?"

She gasped. "If they were not - and their flesh touched that of our friends' while _they_ were being pulled into dreams - calamity! They would have been pulled through the Void; but although we may free them from it, we have no control over their final destination!"

The graceful being began to pace the spacious hall. "If Lady Molly's husband _has_ inadvertently accompanied her, he may be stranded anywhere in Middle Earth with no idea of where he is or why he has come here!"

Manwë's alarm heightened at this unfortunate revelation. "But if he is wandering the lands in a time of war - and without his staff - he shall be vulnerable! If anything happens to him, the Lady Molly will be broken. She has already lost a child; to lose her husband would be her undoing!"

"All is not lost, beloved," said his wife, her mind whirring in thought. She halted and turned to face him. "Send for the Windlord. If any can locate our errant guest, it is he. We may pass instructions to Lady Molly's husband through Gwaihir and give the Wizard safe passage to Imladris, at the very least. There he may wait out the war until he can be reunited with his wife."

The Vala nodded his agreement. "Let it be thus," he declared, leaving the room to call for Gwaihir, Lord of the Eagles.

**XXX**

Augusta Longbottom was very upset. After Neville slipped off to bed (surprisingly early), she took a seat in her favourite armchair by the fireplace in the living room, nightly cuppa in hand as she brooded over their earlier clash.

She didn't actually _believe_ the boy was having some sort of unnatural fling with Molly Weasley, for pity's sake, but really! What was all the subterfuge about? Why the necessity for secrets when the war was over? It was highly unnecessary and extremely annoying!

And she _knew_ he was keeping one: it was written all over his face. That little nervous tic that tugged on the apple of his right cheek was more pronounced now, what with the added tension of his scars pulling on it. Not to mention the fact that he hadn't been able to meet her eye since he left for Molly's to degnome the garden earlier that day.

Taking a dainty sip of her favourite brew, she recalled his angry face as he told her he'd be more likely to 'snog' Professor McGonagall than have an encounter with his friend's mother. Perhaps her insinuations _had_ been a little inappropriate; she knew shouldn't have provoked him so, but honestly! If he'd only come clean and told her what the real issue was, she would not have had to resort to such wild accusations. They were, after all, only supposed to provoke him into revealing what was _really_ on his mind.

Unfortunately, her grandson had not received them well and refused to share another word with her for the remainder of the day. Dinner had been a stilted affair, with polite nods of thanks afterwards and a perfunctory goodnight peck on the cheek from him before he retired.

How she hated it when they quarrelled!

Sometimes, she rather regretted his growing a backbone. Not that he could help it, of course - he _was_ a Longbottom after all.

Now, as she sat before the fireplace partaking of her evening ritual (alone), Augusta wondered if she should perhaps owl the Weasley matron first thing in the morning and find out what was on her grandson's mind. She was just debating the merits of such a course of action, when the whoosh of a Firecall interrupted her.

"Augusta? Are you alone? Excellent. I need a word if you please."

The crisp Scottish brogue of Hogwart's Deputy Headmistress pulled the elderly witch from her contemplations. "Good heavens, Minerva, you startled me! Is something the matter? Won't you come through and share a cup of tea?"

"That's very kind of you, Augusta, but no. I really can't spare the time."

Well, suit yourself.

"I see," replied Augusta primly. "Well, then, what can I do for you at this time of night?" she asked, deliberately exaggerating the lateness of the hour after the rebuff of her kind invitation.

But Minerva obviously had no time to stroke the ego of an offended party. She came straight to the point. "Do you have any idea what your grandson could possibly want with the Sword of Gryffindor? Oh, I've given it to him of course - how could I not after he proved himself so worthy of it. He did promise to return it in the morning, but he wouldn't tell me why he needed it. I questioned him, of course - rather intensively at that - but he refused to divulge his intentions. I did call earlier to ask you about it, but you were not at home."

Augusta's teacup clattered onto its matching saucer. "The Sword of Gryffindor?" she asked, almost dizzily. "_The Sword of Gryffindor_? Gracious, Minerva, why on earth did you give him that? Do you regularly hand out weapons to children?"

Her mind was buzzing with more questions about her devious grandson than ever before and, in her concern, she fairly snapped at the head of her friend as it floated in the green flames.

"I most certainly do not, Augusta, as you are well aware," retorted the visiting witch, irritated. "I assumed that he had your authority - or do you regularly allow him to wander off to do as he pleases? If _you_ can't keep the boy in check, how am _I_ supposed to?"

The frosty reply brought Neville's grandmother back to the conversation at hand. "I apologise, Minerva," she said tiredly. "It's been rather a long day and I've spent most of it trying to get him to tell me whatever's on his mind. I hadn't the faintest idea he'd brought the sword home, let alone why he asked for it in the first place."

"Well, perhaps you should have a chat with him in the morning. I don't think he has anything questionable planned with it - at least I hope not. He's far too sensible a boy to be roaming about the streets swinging it at the first person who annoys him. Nevertheless, I would rest easier knowing his intentions and if you can get more out of him than I could, please be so kind as to let me know that all is well."

Augusta nodded. "I'll call you first thing in the morning after breakfast, Minerva. If I don't know any more by then, then I'm not worthy of the name of Longbottom!"

McGonagall gave a thin smile. "Yes, well, quite. Ahem. You can reach me at the school, then - we're still clearing up the last of the debris from the battle before the reconstruction itself can begin. Goodnight, Augusta."

With that, her head vanished and the emerald flames followed suit, leaving the head of the Longbottom family with a lot to think about.

What _was_ the boy up to? Had he discovered the hiding place of some unfortunate Death Eater and was off to give them a richly deserved run-through with the iconic sword (not that she would mind: in fact, she'd be happy to go along and cheer him on)? Was it for some other, less savoury, purpose?

Her hand flew to her chest. Good heavens, he wasn't thinking about doing something stupid, like throwing himself on it? No, surely not! Whatever would he do that for? The war was over. The rest of his life stretched before him to spend however he pleased. He would get a job (preferably as an Auror - she had collected an application form before he joined her for lunch), meet a girl, get married (after she thoroughly vetted his chosen bride - it wouldn't do to have some publicity-hungry hero-worshipper trying to get a foot over the Longbottom threshold), have fine, sturdy children who were ready to live up to the responsibility of their name, leaving her to die a very happy woman.

Thinking it might be best to get to the bottom of this before breakfast, she grabbed her wand and rose from the comfy armchair, dashing rather nimbly up the hall staircase for one of such advanced years.

Tiptoeing to his room, Augusta pressed an ear to the door, listening for any untoward sounds (such as his scream of agony as he recklessly impaled himself on the glorified knife). Thankfully all was quiet within.

Perhaps the deed was already over?

Her throat clenched at the thought of the last of the (barely lucid) Longbottoms lying cold on the carpet, having extinguished his life in the difficult aftermath of a war that had robbed him of so many of his friends. She reached a hand out towards the doorknob and watched in detached fascination as it trembled uncontrollably.

Good grief! Get a hold of yourself woman!

Shaking her head vigorously, Augusta took a deep breath and chastised herself for her ridiculous flights of fancy. Her grandson would no more kill himself than she would visit that idiot Dawlish in St Mungo's!

Then why did he need the sword? Why all the half-answers to her earlier questions? Were he and Molly Weasley planning something of which she would not approve? But Molly wouldn't dream of such underhanded dealings, surely?

"Right, that's it!" Determined to get answers, she risked her grandson's wrath by turning the doorknob and opening the door itself, thankful that she'd had the hinges oiled a few days ago. As the light from the hall spilled into the room it hit the bed and she saw Neville lying on it, apparently asleep.

Fully clothed.

Clutching a bag?

What the deuce was the boy up to?

Fed up with mysteries, Augusta slipped into the room and walked over to the bed. She prodded his shoulder. "Neville? Wake up! I have some questions for you, my lad, and you will answer them before the stroke of midnight or I will see to it that your overgrown cactus finds its way to the deserts of Mexico!"

No reply. Odd: that was one of her favourite threats of the past three years - it never failed to provoke a response.

She shook him again. "Neville Longbottom, wake up this instant!"

Still no answer. His eyelids fluttered and she bent over to yell in his ear, brushing his shaggy hair over his forehead to get better access. First thing tomorrow, she would need to trim the shockingly long locks hanging over his ears, so she could ...

Her thought processes froze as, suddenly, she felt her finger tingle violently where it touched his skin. Augusta tried to pull it away but it stuck to him like glue and before she could so much as utter a disapproving remark on his fondness for disgracefully viscous hair gel, she dropped to the floor. Her head landed on the side of his bed with a soft _thump_.

She was unconscious.

**XXX**

Augusta landed inelegantly in a prickly briar patch. Grateful that no one was around to witness her less than auspicious entry to ... wherever she was, she pulled herself free from the irritating plants and brushed herself off.

What the deuce had happened? And where was her grandson?

Her eyes scanned the immediate surroundings. It appeared she was in some sort of valley, with snow-capped mountains rising up on either side. A river flowed through it further down the slope.

Good heavens! Had she been port-keyed to the Lake District? By her grandson's _forehead_? And where _was_ the devious child?

Taking cautious steps to descend the slope, she arrived at the bottom and tried to spot any sign of her errant charge.

"Neville? _Neville_? Where _are_ you, boy!"

There was no reply.

How very irritating! What the devil was he up to, skipping off to the Lake District in the middle of the night?

Except that it wasn't the middle of the night - it was the middle of the _day_. The sun shone weakly in the sky and a crisp winter's breeze ruffled at her tightly pinned bun as it made its way up the valley.

It was all very odd.

How was it possible to go from one place to another instantaneously, only to arrive at a completely different hour of the day? Had she been port-keyed to _Australia_? What the devil did her grandson want there? The place was full of spiders, snakes and people of very questionable taste (anyone who could wax lyrical about the virtue of a highly suspicious Muggle vegetable spread was, in her opinion, touched in the head).

Well, she would not stand here gaping like an idiot while her only grandchild decided to go walkabout in the bush with a group of people who were barely able to speak the Queen's English (the fact that the Queen herself was a Muggle did not bother her a bit). She would find him and drag him back home by the scruff of his alarmingly hirsute neck (she might trim his hair first) and he would jolly well explain to her the reasons behind this idiotic jaunt.

Australia, indeed!

Spotting a paved road on the western banks of the river, Augusta crossed the rocky terrain until her feet met it, then she turned south. She had no idea where Neville might have went, but it seemed as good a place to start as any. Perhaps she would encounter some of the natives and could ask them where the Australian Ministry of Magic was to be found. An organised search party ought to be more effective in locating her grandson than a single woman alone. Marching briskly down the road, she hoped that any travellers she met were of the magical variety. It wouldn't do to alarm some poor unsuspecting Muggle with questions about Ministries of Magic or International Portkeys!

The wind blew chill down the valley again and she shivered. Thank goodness she hadn't changed out of her day wear before having her tea - it wouldn't do to be caught in the middle of nowhere in her nightgown! But that didn't address the issue of the cold…

She studied the grassy verges along the road and saw they were littered with rocks, probably loosened from the mountains during previous spring thaws.

Yes, they would do nicely!

Pointing her wand, she transfigured a medium sized one into a replica of her favourite green winter coat and slipped it on.

Ah, much better! Still, something wasn't right.

The wind stirred her hair again.

Of course! She needed her hat.

Another handy rock was soon reshaped in the form of her beloved hat, stuffed vulture and all. She pulled it down over her head, feeling much more like her old self.

All she needed now was to locate her missing grandchild and get him back to England as soon as possible.

Something that was easier said than done, apparently. The hours passed slowly as Augusta trudged along the road and she became increasingly tired. Not surprising really; she should have been in bed hours ago, and would have been too, if her wayward ward hadn't decided to take a trip to the other side of the world and drag her along with him.

Augusta set her jaw firmly. Neville would have a lot of explaining to do when she got her hands on him! What on earth had he been thinking? This was all very out of character for the boy - he was usually so obedient. If he was going through some sort of delayed adolescent rebellion, she would hex his ears off!

Annoyed at the thought of having to deal with teenaged temper tantrums at her age, Augusta began to devise various methods of dealing with problem children (which, in her opinion, was all of them); it helped to while away the long hours of walking. Her favourite method involved locking them up in a Dementor-free Azkaban during this difficult period, with a strict regime of theoretical and practical schoolwork (they would never become valuable members of society without a good education) and only weekend visits from relatives to imbue upon them the merit of proper behaviour.

What a terribly good idea! Perhaps she should recommend it to Shacklebolt on her return? As the Acting Minister of Magic, he would have the authority to put the wheels into motion, so to speak.

Feeling very pleased with herself, Augusta carried on her merry way. Unfortunately, her fatigue was becoming more difficult to ignore. A huge yawn ripped through her. Perhaps it was time to call it a day and take some rest?

But where?

The valley seemed to stretch out before her with no end in sight. With no sign of even a remote hillside dwelling, she had little hope of finding a warm bed.

At least, not a warm bed inside a_ house_. She could always transfigure another rock or - better still, a large boulder. Leaving the road, Neville's grandmother moved towards the slopes and scanned the mountainside. Where there were mountains, there were usually caves: if she could find one, taking her rest there would be preferable to camping on the side of the road.

She walked along the side of the mountain for almost half an hour before spotting something suitable. It was only a little way up and, merciffully, didn't involve too much climbing. The entrance was about twenty feet above her current position and the slope leading up to it did not present too much of a problem for her tired joints as Augusta clambered up it. Reaching her goal, the elderly witch held her wand before her and cast a Lumos charm before entering the dark cavern. The cave proper was surprisingly spacious: about twenty five feet wide and thirty feet long, with no entryways or exits other than the one she had just used. More importantly, it appeared to be completely devoid of wildlife.

Splendid! Now for a bed ...

Several decent-sized boulders were simply begging for a change of career and Augusta thought she really ought to oblige them. Soon, the largest boulder was transfigured into a comfortable Queen-sized bed with feather pillows and woolly blankets. Removing her coat and hat, and placing them on the bedpost, she cast a quick Muggle-Repelling charm on the cave entrance and slipped gratefully between the sheets to enjoy forty winks.

**XXX**

Three hours later, Augusta Longbottom was pulled out of a very pleasant dream (about Neville being named Head of the Auror Department) by the sound of stomping boots.

Several sets of stomping boots.

At first, the elderly witch was a little disorientated and called out to her grandson to 'stop making that infernal racket', but when the noise continued despite her complaint she quickly roused from her confusion and rose from the comfort of her bed.

Ah, the cave. Yes, well, better be getting on with the job at hand. There was an errant grandson to find!

She got up, rubbed at her aching hips and donned her coat and hat. Returning the bed to its former occupation as a lump of rock and removing the charm at the entrance, she cautiously made her way towards it to see who on earth was making all the noise. Her eyes caught the source of it immediately: there were at least forty people marching down the paved road in the same direction she'd been heading. They were clothed in very odd dark garments and wielding - were those spears? Good heavens! The racket they made came from their clumpy boots banging on the road at each step. Several of them were arguing; hissing and spitting at each other in a very unseemly manner, until one of their leaders doubled back and clobbered them with the edge of his ... _shield_?

What in Merlin's name was going on? Were they on their way to some sort of bizarre local festival?

Perhaps she should follow at a discreet distance until she could determine the nature of the odd-looking company?

It seemed like a sensible idea, so Augusta allowed a full thirty minutes to pass, that they may make it further down the road before she made her own way down the mountain to follow them.

Which gave her plenty of time to wonder what she should do about breakfast. She had no food with her and was only able to conjure liquids, meaning she had little choice but to sip at a steaming mug of bouillon in place of a hot bowl of slightly salted porridge. Disgraceful! Drinking soup for breakfast might be all the rage on some far-flung corner of the Continent, but it just wasn't British enough for Augusta Longbottom!

Tired of the bland liquid, she vanished the remnants and decided to make her way out of her impromptu sleeping chamber. Unfortunately for the wizened witch, the consumption of a healthy amount of fluid had triggered in her the urgent need to evacuate her bladder of the previous night's Earl Grey.

Botheration! Not a blasted loo in sight, of course; which meant she'd have to do the necessary in some dark corner like a filthy vagrant. When she got her hands on that boy ...

Grumbling in annoyance, Augusta moved to the rear of the cave and surveyed the gloomy corners distastefully. Not in a million _years_ was she lifting her skirt to hover over some unseen pest on the cave floor that was just waiting for the opportunity to take a chunk out of a desperate old woman's nethers!

Pointing her wand at the nearest boulder, she transfigured a throne - an actual one - lined with red velvet and boasting a gleaming silver bowl cut delicately into the seat.

There, that was much better!

Removing her hat and coat, and lifting her woolly green dress, she daintily pulled down her smalls and lowered herself onto the impressive commode like an Egyptian goddess. Sighing, Augusta placed her arms on the rests in the manner of a ruling monarch as she graciously allowed nature to take its course. The Muggle house of Windsor would kill for a loo of such grandeur!

It was as she was spending a Knut (or rather a bagful of Galleons), that a noise from the cave entrance disturbed her. Gracious! Was she to be caught in flagrante - with her knickers around her ankles while she peed for England - in this remote hovel? Thank goodness she'd had the sense to put a Muggle-repelling charm on the cave entrance ...

Good heavens!

Augusta almost suffered heart failure when she remembered that she'd removed the charm not minutes before. She made a wild grab for her coat and removed her wand, but was not fast enough to stop the inevitable …

"I 'eard somefink I tell ya! Came from in 'ere, it did."

Two dark shapes moved into the cave as the witch sat frozen to her seat.

"What's yer on about? I can't hear nuffink. Yer been drinking too much o' that grog again? Greedy filth!"

Augusta didn't dare so much as breathe and. She sat squeezing her bits together to prevent telltale splashes from alerting them to her presence. Of course, she was fully capable of ridding herself of the unfortunate duo, but was rather reluctant to face them in such a delicate state. They hadn't come near the gloomy rear of the cave yet, anyway. Perhaps they would give up and leave, sparing an old woman her blushes? For their sakes, they had better ...

"I ain't touched yore stinkin' grog! An Orc needs ta keep 'is head clear when he's out on Wizard's business, or don't ya remember what 'appened ta Garbak when 'ol Saruman caught him souced on it an' asleep at 'is post?"

Wizard's business? The witch listened intently, keen to learn more. There was absolutely no doubt in her mind that the two idiots intruding on her own 'business' were not the sort of individuals she'd invite round for a cup of tea; nevertheless, if they had knowledge of a wizard in this uncivilised backwater, she'd tolerate their intrusion a minute longer before she made them regret their untimely appearance. Perhaps the wizard would at least be able to assist her in finding her missing grandchild?

"Garbak was an idiot - on'y good fink 'e ever did was get 'imself fed ta the Wargs. Jus' like you an' yer stupid airs - d'ya really fink the Wizard's goin' ta care if yer plays up to 'im? 'E won't care a bit, 'cos 'e don't take no notice of scum unless they grates on 'is nerves! E'd on'y laugh at yore sorry attempts ta impress 'im before he chucked ya inta the wolf-pit as well!"

Hmm. Perhaps this wizard wasn't such a good idea at all.

Deciding that enough was enough, Augusta silently picked herself up from her throne - and was in the act of pulling up her smalls - when a loud sniff made her pause.

"I smell chicken."

Oh dear, the bouillon!

"That's not chicken, ya bleedin' fool. That's fish, that is."

Fish? She flushed. How dare he! Augusta Longbottom was an absolute stickler for personal hygiene and anyone who said otherwise was a liar!

"'Ello, 'ello! What's this then?"

She froze, knickers halfway up her knees, and raised her head.

Oh, botheration.

The guests must have had excellent hearing, for despite the cautious climb from her seat, they had obviously heard her and decided to investigate.

They gawked at her in absolute astonishment, and although the light did not reach entirely to her corner of the cave, it was still enough to give Augusta the very first glimpse of what were, surely, the ugliest Australians she had ever seen in her life. Short, squat and dark, they had uneven features, crooked yellow teeth and beady black eyes which were fixed on her hungrily.

"Well I'll be Elved! It's a stinkin' female!"

The tallest took a step forward as she yanked up her smalls and gripped her wand tightly by her side.

"No need ter dress up on my account - yer not gonna need them fings to pass ma lips!"

Oh. Good. Grief. Was the disgusting cretin _propositioning_ her?

"I beg your pardon?" she exclaimed in revulsion, annoyed at having been caught despite going into (a rather useless) stealth mode.

The shorter one moved closer as well and she didn't know what was worse: the acrid smell of the loo behind or the putrid stench of the people ahead.

"No need fer yer ta beg - we'll take it anyway it comes." He licked his lips lasciviously and, completely mistaking his intentions, she pulled herself straight and gave them her best Longbottom glare.

"If you imagine for one second that I would _dream_ of bestowing my affections on such sorry excuses for men, then you are very sadly mistaken!" she announced shrilly. The volume made them wince.

But it did not deter the strangers; they moved closer still. Augusta raised her wand in warning.

"Men? The old bat finks we're Men, Fragat!" The 'men' looked at each other and burst into howls of raucous laughter that rebounded on the cave walls and out into the daylight beyond.

Old bat? How very _dare_ they!

The furious Longbottom matriarch strode the few remaining steps toward them, face blazing. Her bold move caught the pair by surprise and they retreated a little nearer to the cave entrance. Their new proximity to the light streaming in through the opening gave her a better view of the visitors - they were most definitely _not _men (Australian or otherwise).

But whatever they were, they were not be daunted by the sight of one little old lady for long. With surprising speed, the filthy creatures blocked the entrance and, thinking she was about to make a dash for it, pointed their long, ugly spears at her.

"If yer finks we'd ever touch a female of Men in that way, yore as stupid as a day old Uruk!" sneered the as yet unnamed one. "All we wants ta do is rip yore flesh off an' eat it!"

Oh, _really_? Augusta was incensed.

Which was never a good thing for anyone in her immediate vicinity.

"Is that so?" she barked furiously, raising her wand higher still. the motion caught her aggressors' eyes.

"What's yer gonna do wiv that little stick then, eh? Smack us on the 'ead?"

More laughter.

"Course, it might not be worth our while eating ya," announced the one called Fragat. "Even a starvin' Orc won't chew on leather!"

Enough was enough. The angry witch jabbed her wand at the smaller one and, with a most effective Banishing charm, sent him flying backwards out the cave entrance, over the incline and down into the valley below.

Rounding on the remaining (open-mouthed) intruder, she cried "_Locomotor Mortis!_". The stunned orc's leg slammed together, making it impossible for him to move. Augusta then Banished his spear (much to his dismay) and circled him like a predator, staying just out of reach of his flapping arms.

"So, you think it's amusing to intrude into a lady's chamber, do you?" demanded the fuming granny as she jabbed her wand at him again. His hair fell out, and he let forth a screech of horror while trying to grab his tumbling locks.

"Well? Have you lost your tongue? Is it normal in this corner of the world for ladies to be harassed by - what did you call yourself? - orcs?"

"I'll 'ave yore 'ead on a spear for this!" yelled the orc.

Augusta rolled her eyes. "And how _exactly_ do you plan to do that?"

The orc took a violent swing at her, causing him to lose his balance as he overreached. He hit the ground with a dull thud.

"Really, you'll have to do better than that!" She watched with mild interest as he pulled himself across the floor of the cave towards her, and she debated whether or not to tolerate his pathetic attempts for a few seconds more.

It wasn't worth the effort, really.

Another wave of her wand and the orc howled; yanking his fingers away from their desperate grasp at her ankle, he shoved his fist into his mouth to nurse it, slavering all over the long, red marks she had inflicted with her wand.

"That was a Stinging hex," said the ageing witch in a voice of authority that would make any Hogwarts' professor proud. "If you don't start answering my questions, you useless baggage, I will cover every inch of your skin in them. Do you understand?"

"I'll strip the meat of yer bones and cook it in Warg fat, when I gets my 'ands on yer!" screamed the orc.

Oh for goodness' sake. Was the creature a raving idiot? Another flick of her wand, another scream of pain.

"Not the wisest of answers, my good fellow."

She took a seat on a jutting rock and studied the hideous creature. He whimpered in pain as he clutched his wounded hand to his chest and eyed her murderously. Gracious - how could she ever have mistaken him for an Australian? Australians had rather lovely teeth (in her experience).

"Now, here is how things will work: I will ask a question which you will answer politely. If I am displeased with your reply -"

The formidable woman curled her fingers and studied them thoughtfully (to draw out the tension). Was that a ragged nail on her thumb? Her monthly manicure at Madam Charlotte's Not For Harlots Beauty Boutique (where only the elite gained entry) was disgracefully overdue! Not that Lottie could blame her: after all, Augusta had been far too busy fighting the incompetent nincompoops boasted by the ranks of the Death Eaters to worry about her beauty regime. Never mind. Time to rejoin her guest ...

"- then you will leave me little choice but to hit you with a Crispy Skin hex," she finished briskly. "Do we understand each other?"

The orc was obviously not enamoured with the possibility of resembling a roast chicken, for his eyes widened at the threat. But the fight had not left him yet.

"It'll take more'n a little ol' lady ta scare a Wizard's Orc," he growled harshly. "Don't yer know that we Orcs ain't afraid of nuffink?"

One tiny flick of her wand later, and every loose stone in the cave was skipping its merry way towards the prisoner before rising into the air to rain down on his head.

He cried like a baby.

"You, no doubt, are the exception to the rule. So, let us get started. First of all, where am I?"

"Yore in trouble, that's where yer are!"

Perhaps the creature was having trouble with his hearing? Augusta aimed her wand and the orc's ears began to wiggle and twitch uncontrollably.

"Aaargh! Stop it! Stop it, ya evil ol' hag!"

Hag?

A more vicious jab of her wand in his direction and soon the screaming orc was covered in large, ugly hives.

"It appears to me that your manners are severely lacking, young man," she said primly. "I am a visitor to your lands and as such expect to be treated courteously. I am not accustomed to being addressed in such a disgracefully rude manner, nor will I tolerate it much longer. And for your information, I am not a hag, I am a witch."

She rose from her seat and put a stop to his frenzied flailing with a quick Incarcerous. Another quick wave and the whimpering orc was hanging upside down in mid-air; his flapping ears madeg him look rather like a furious bat.

"So, let's try that again shall we? Where am I?"

"A Witch? Yore a _Witch_? There's no such fing as a Witch, on'y Wizards - any fool can tell yer that! Lemme go! Put me down!"

"Of course I'm a witch, you blethering idiot. I have bested you several times with the aid of my wand, so please excuse me if I beg to differ - or would you care for another demonstration?"

This sent the wriggling mass of itchy hives that was her captive into a frenzy. "No, no! I believes ya!"

"Good. Now: where am I?"

"Yore in the Wizard's Vale, o' course! Where else would yer be?" cried the orc, desperately trying to free an arm so he could scratch at ... well, any part of his body, really.

Wizard's Vale? She'd never heard of that. Which was surprising: such a distinctive name would draw the interest of Wizarding tourists from all over Britain.

"And where is this 'Wizard's Vale', young ... oh, what is your name? I can't possibly keep referring to you as 'young man' when you very clearly are no such thing."

The orc looked taken aback by her question - and then very worried.

She tapped her foot impatiently.

Her captive broke out in a sweat.

Oh, for goodness' sake!

"Well, what is it? Has the Kneazle caught your tongue?"

A gurgle of fear emitted from his mouth as he eyed her wand. Tired of waiting for an answer, she pointed it smack between the snivelling creature's eyes and he shuddered in terror before squeaking: "What d'ya want first?"

"Beg pardon?"

"I said 'what d'ya want first'? Ta know where the Wizard's Vale is, or ta know me name? If I gives ya the wrong answer, yer might boil me eyes or somefink!"

Rolling her own in disgust, she asked for his name first.

"Grodek."

What sort of a name was _that_?

"Gracious, what on earth was your unfortunate mother thinking? Is your name some sort of revenge for giving her a difficult labour?"

Grodek gave her a sneer, but his current position made it look more like a jolly smile and she shuddered in repulsion.

"Orcs ain't got no mother! We was made in the pits of Orthanc."

Yes, well, that certainly explained a lot. No mother, no manners and no knowledge of soap, by the smell of things.

"And what is this 'Orthanc'? Is that where we are now?"

Another jolly smile.

"Yore at the foot of the Last Mountain. Another few leagues ta the south and there's where ye'll find me 'ome. Tha's where ol' Saruman lives, up in 'is Tower."

Augusta favoured Grodek with a frown and he flinched. How far was a league, exactly? Did the stupid creature have no concept of the metric system?

"How far on foot is that, precisely?" she asked.

"Fer an Orc, three 'ours: fer an ol' woman? A week!"

"Tut, tut, my good fellow. I thought we had already discussed the manner in which this conversation was to be held?"

Grodek's eyes bulged as she dragged her wand across his throat.

"Don't kill me! I'm too young ter die!"

"Kill you? When you're unarmed and all trussed up like a Christmas turkey? I'm not some merciless barbarian, you know!" she declared in outrage.

The orc emitted a strangled sigh of relief, his fetid breath wafting up her flaring nostrils like the unpleasant odour of Neville's dirty socks. Stepping back in disgust, she questioned him again.

"What country is this 'Orthanc' in? Australia?"

A look of confusion crossed Grodek's face. "Never 'eard of no Orstrayleeya. It's nearer Rohan than anywhere's else."

"Rohan? I've never heard of _that_. Which part of the world is it in - the Southern Hemisphere? Perhaps off Indonesia?"

"I dunno no Indoneesya or anywhere else yer fink it might be!"

The irate witch huffed in annoyance. Obviously, the education system of the land was suffering from a shortage of Geography teachers.

"We _are_ still on the planet Earth though, I presume" she drawled sarcastically, looking at the suspended orc as if he was the stupidest thing she'd ever seen (and he was).

"Wassa planet?"

Had he _actually_ asked what a planet was? Augusta was rapidly losing patience with the ignoramus and her annoyance must have been glaringly apparent, for the orc barked a more satisfactory answer before she could hex him again.

"This is Middle Earth! Yore in Middle Earth!"

Middle Earth? What, like Spain? Or further down - Greece perhaps? Couldn't be Egypt - that was too far south to be at the middle of the Earth.

But Grodek must have been feeling chatty, for he elaborated without the need for further verbal instruction (a simple lift of her eyebrow had been sufficient).

"Yer must know Middle Earth if yore a Witch, surely? Big place, lotsa stinkin' Elves, stinkin' Men and stinkin' 'orses?"

Not to mention stinking orcs.

"Don't be ridiculous. There aren't that many house-elves, and men don't stink - well, not all of them; not to mention the fact that horses are not exactly a prolific or popular mode of transport nowadays, even with Muggles."

"Wassa Muggol?"

Now, this orc may not be of Wizarding stock, that much was plain to see; but he must belong to _some_ far-flung branch of magical creatures. His very appearance dictated it. So why would he not know what a Muggle was?

"A Muggle is a non-magical person, you idiot," she said disdainfully. "You should at least be aware of that if you work for a wizard - he must have told you what our kind call them."

"Yore kind? Why, yer talks like there's a Wizard round ev'ry corner. There's on'y an 'andful of 'em in all Middle Earth; four at most, now that the Grey one's dead. Well, five if yer counts the Dark Lord: he's the greatest of the lot. Ev'n 'ol Saruman's got ter answer ter 'im."

A very unpleasant chill coursed its way through the witch's body upon hearing the words 'Dark Lord'. She took a dangerous step closer to the squirming orc.

"What do you mean, 'Dark Lord'. There _is_ no Dark Lord: he was killed by Harry Potter last week."

"What's yer talkin about? The Dark Lord Sauron's not dead! And 'oo the bleedin' 'eck is 'Arry Potta?" scoffed Grodek.

"Harry Potter is the Chosen One. A seventeen year old boy who destroyed He Who Must Not Be Named with a simple spell."

"Who's not ta be named? What spell?"

It was all very confusing. No matter where on the planet she was, anyone associated with the Wizarding World must have heard of Harry Potter and be aware of the end of He Who Must Not Be Named's reign of terror in Wizarding Britain.

Brow creased in irritation, Augusta regarded the dangling orc. "Do you mean to tell me that you have never heard of Vo ... Vo ..."

She was having difficulty saying the name.

Blast it all! It simply wouldn't do! If her seventeen-year-old grandson could say the name of a dead despot, surely she should be able to manage it? Was she not the head of one of the oldest families in Wizarding Britain? Did she not have a duty to live up to the proud heritage of her husband's ancestors?

"'Oo's Vo-Vo?"

Grodek was still trying to free a hand to scratch himself. Augusta eyed him irately.

"Voldemort!" she barked, annoyed that he had almost spotted her weakness. "Lord Voldemort. You must know him? Murderer of children, slayer of families and general no-good megalomaniac of the western world?"

"This _is_ the West, an' I've never 'eard of 'im." He'd managed to wriggle a finger free and was currently scratching his hip furiously. Augusta conjured more ropes around him and Grodek yelled in fury.

"What do you mean you've never heard of him? He was the most powerful Dark Lord in a century! He cut a swathe of terror across half the Wizarding World and almost destroyed a way of life sacred to Wizardkind! Do you honestly expect me to believe that you've never heard of him?"

"I told ya I'd never 'eard of 'im, didn't I? The on'y Dark Lord hereabouts is the Dark Lord Sauron and yer don't wanna go messing wiv 'im! Don't yer know we're at war?"

War? In Australia? Good heavens!

"I'll admit to having been slightly out of touch with current affairs abroad, my good fellow; but I think that - even on the run from a horde of Death Eaters - I would have heard about another war! This Sauron chap can't be all that bad if I've never heard of him."

Grodek gave an ugly cackle of laughter. "Can't be all that bad? Where've ya been 'iding yoreself? Wiv the stinkin' 'alflings? The Dark Lord Sauron 'as armies of Orcs an' Uruk-hai tearin' through the lands of the West as we speak! 'E's goin' ta destroy the Men that's stupid enough ta fight 'im and burn their villages! 'E's got spies ev'rywhere, an' Nazgûl that spread fear wherev'r they goes. An' when 'e's got his body back, e'll rule Middle Earth like a king! An' my master, Saruman, will be standin' by 'is side like a prince!"

Augusta paved the length of the cave in frustration as her mind whirled. She'd had no idea there was another powerful dark wizard - and certainly not one as dangerous as the raving lunatic before her would have her believe. Surely the Daily Prophet would have reported on such a thing, despite the troubles in their own country? But then, He Who Must …_Voldemort's _spies had controlled the press for most of the last year, and he would hardly have enjoyed sharing the limelight with a potential rival - even one on the other side of the world.

But the disturbing news of an Australian Voldemort only increased her confusion at her grandson's presence here. After all the boy had been through, popping off into another war zone should have been the last thing on his mind.

Unless it was his intention to get involved.

Impossible! After all he'd been through this past year; all the rebelling, the training, the fighting - all the friends he had lost. He wouldn't!

"_Do you have any idea what your grandson could possibly want with the Sword of Gryffindor?"_

Minerva's question popped into her head as she fought to dismiss the ridiculous notion of Neville toddling off to another conflict, and she gasped in horror. Was this why he wanted it? To take a jaunt into foreign lands and take a stab (literally) at ridding the locals of their own spot of bother?

It made no sense. Her grandson was not Harry Potter. Noble though he was, Neville Longbottom was not exactly the sort of boy to go gallivanting into danger mere days after surviving the worst Wizarding battle in over a century; that was more his father's style, when he'd been able for it.

But Neville was more like his father now than he'd been three years ago. No more the shy, reticent child that used to drive her to distraction with his preference of plants over a possible career in law enforcement. Oh, no. Ever since the summer after his fifth year of school there had been a blaze of energy about him; a newfound confidence that made her heart surge in the hope he would finally join the ranks of the Aurors and help rid the world of its lurking evils. His performance on the battlefield at Hogwarts had only compounded these hopes. Defying the worst wizard to ever draw breath and assisting the Potter boy in his downfall by ridding him of that awful snake had proven once and for all that he was his father's son.

Was that not what she had always wanted?

Augusta frowned. Living with the harsh reality of his parents' incurable condition had affected him deeply, but it had never controlled who Neville was. She remembered the quiet child he'd always been: sweet, obedient and considerate, if alarmingly Squib-like. But war had changed all that: now he was confident, assertive, more comfortable with his magical identity - and far stronger than she'd ever thought he could be. He had grown up and life had made a soldier of him. A leader.

And now, bolstered by the victory at Hogwarts, he had recklessly taken it upon himself to trot off to pastures new - armed with little more than a wand and a sword - to go all 'Dumbledore' on the resident Grindelwald!

That had to be it! Suddenly his secretive manner of the day before and McGonagall's late night call made perfect sense. Neville had somehow found out about this lunatic Sauron and had been planning his little busman's holiday to Australia to finish the blighter off! Had the boy lost his marbles? What in the name of Merlin did he think he was playing at, placing the future of the Longbottom line in such jeopardy when its future ought now to be secured?

_This _was not what she had wanted.

She would kill him herself!

Once she found him, of course.

But how to _do _that? By the sound of things, she was in a place where, once again, war raged. Wizards (what there were of them) allied themselves against Muggles and (for some strange reason) house-elves, and another Dark Lord was trying to rule over them all.

How _very_ inconvenient.

How would she find the impetuous child here? Where would he go?

Where his help was needed, of course!

Spinning around to face the dangling orc, she hit him with a swift Liberacorpus and the unfortunate creature hit the ground head first. Grodek rolled dazedly on the cave floor; Augusta walked over to him and placed her foot on his chest to still his motion.

"Now then, you disgraceful mutant; you are going to tell me how to get to the nearest town that is fighting against this Dark Lord of yours."

Grodek's eyes crossed as he focussed on her wand, which was dangling inches from his face.

"Why would I wanna do that?" he grunted. "Ain't nuffink in Rohan but stinkin' Men and their stinkin' 'orses."

War had apparently been declared on the native equines too.

She lowered her wand further until it hovered directly over his face, making him flinch violently.

"Because I am hardly likely to visit your master for afternoon tea when it is painfully apparent what a scoundrel he is. You will tell me exactly where I must go and show me the best path to take to avoid Orthanc - or I _will_ boil your eyes. While they're still in your head."

The wand emitted a small puff of white steam in support of her threat, sending Grodek into full begging mode.

"Aagh! No ... don't! I'll do anyfink, jus' like yer asks. Jus' don't hurt me again!"

Pathetic.

Sneering in disgust at the grovelling orc, the elderly witch Vanished his bonds and removed the Twitchy Ears hex.

She left the hives as they were and the unhappy orc glared at her malevolently while he scratched furiously at his skin, his ragged nails ripping at flesh in an effort to find relief.

Donning her coat and hat (the precariously positioned vulture almost made Grodek's eyes pop out his head), she marched towards her captive.

"Well, what are you waiting for? I don't have all day to dawdle in this cave; show me the way to Rohan."

Augusta indicated the exit with a nod of her head, but just as Grodek made a move to approach it, she stuck her wand in his cheek. "And don't even _think_ of trying to give me the slip or I'll make certain you beg for the safety of those wolf-pits you so admire."

Satisfied with his answering shudder, she prodded him forward with her wand and together they exited the dark little cave into the mid-afternoon sunshine.

Which was when they discovered they were not alone ...

Botheration!

A group of perhaps six orcs, possibly fellow scouts of her captive, or the rag-tag remnants of the party which had disappeared down the road earlier, were clustered in the valley below, growling and yelling over the prize they had discovered.

Fragat's body.

Two of them started to fight, hissing and snarling at each other like a pair of angry Lestranges. Augusta curled her lip in disgust as the others started ripping into the corpse of their fallen comrade. Soon, Fragat's insides became his outsides and Augusta watched in horrified fascination as one of the orcs tried to strangle another with a length of intestine for attempting to steal his dinner.

She was about to comment on their disgraceful lack of respect for the dead (and their shocking table manners) when suddenly another flat-nosed creature popped over the incline that led to the cave. The orc's eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed in glee as he yelled out to the rowdy diners in the valley below, alerting them all to her presence and making them very happy at the prospect of a second course. Four of them abandoned Fragat's disembowelled corpse and made a bee-line for the incline.

This untimely call to arms instilled a new-found defiance in the recently subservient Grodek: he ducked out from under the wand and twisted his torso towards her, using the momentum to swing his arms into her face. Augusta side-stepped his mutiny and, with a swift Petrificus Totalus, he fell frozen to the ground like a lump of wood.

The ugly creature who had discovered her ill-timed exit was quite taken aback when Grodek fainted like a maiden at the sight of his rescue party (especially when the helpless little old lady resolutely stood her ground), but he quickly overcame his shock and aimed his spear at her, growling menacingly as he ran at full speed to pierce her belly with it.

With a roll of her eyes, the grim-faced granny struck him with the same Banishing charm that had proved so effective with the recently departed (and partly digested) Fragat. Soon he was flying over the incline and into the valley below.

"I'll deal with you later," she snapped at the frozen form of Grodek and marched towards the edge of the incline.

The bloodthirsty orcs had ground to an astonished halt at the base of the incline and were tracking their airborne colleague with wide eyes. Up, up, up he soared, across the valley (screaming all the way), until gravity finally dictated that he really ought to be going down, down, down. He smashed onto the road below where he moved no more. His ugly friends swivelled their heads collectively back to the top of the incline to see what unnatural phenomena had caused his untimely demise, and it was with much disbelief that they spied the very little (but very irate) old lady with the monstrous millinery glowering at them in disapproval.

"Get 'er!" yelled one of the angry natives, refusing to believe his friend had met his death at her hands. Snapping out of their fugue, the orcs initiated a full-on assault of the incline. Augusta tutted in annoyance.

She really did _not_ have time for this. There was a deluded teenager out there somewhere who was simply begging for a round telling off (and she was just the woman to give it to him) - and these infernal creatures would be most unwise to try and stop her. What a terrible nuisance for Grodek to have brought his friends; although it was something she should have expected if they were only a few hours from the dark wizard's home. If war was raging through Australia, then Saruman would want to keep a very close eye on his borders.

Deciding that Grodek's comrades were no more likely to be sympathetic to her cause than he was, she trained her wand on them and, before they knew what had hit them, they too were flying across the valley. The two diners by the feast that was Fragat had, by this time, paused in their afternoon snack and watched in fascinated horror as, for the first time in history, it rained orcs.

_Thump! Thud! Crack! Splatter!_

"Let that be a lesson to you!" Augusta called out. "This is no way to treat tourists!"

Two enraged snarls echoed across the valley as the remaining duo made a dash for this strange new enemy.

Good grief! Did the imbeciles not know when they had been bested?

Apparently not: they were rushing up the mountainside towards the very put-out grandmother, waving their swords and screaming obscenities.

"Jus' stay where yer are, my pretty. Ol' Raguk 'ere's on 'is way ter taste yer sweet flesh!"

Oh _really_?

Before 'ol' Raguk' knew what had happened, he found himself being clobbered repeatedly by dozens of loose rocks which had been, mere seconds before, lying innocently across the incline. His dropped his sword and dropped into a crouch with his hands covering his head protectively, and the air resounded with his yells of shocked fury. The remaining orc roared in anger and doubled his efforts to reach Augusta, using some of the most truly appalling language she had ever heard in her life.

"Don't be so rude!" cried the witch, thoroughly appalled by what he had planned for her (magically supported) bosom. She aimed her wand and hit him with a Tongue-Tying curse to prevent any further impertinence.

"Manners maketh the man you know!" called the matriarch, very pleased with the blissful silence her spell had produced.

Hmm. But did they maketh the _orc_? No time to dwell on that now ...

The confused creature was attempting to peel his tongue away from the back of his mouth, with little success. Realising that he didn't need to talk to fight, he lunged at Augusta once more.

"Don't you _ever _give up?" she snapped, beyond irritated by the creature's stubbornness. She cast a Tarantallegra and watched in deep satisfaction as the dancing orc stumbled and jerked furiously along the rocky path before losing his footing and crashing to the ground below, legs twitching violently all the way.

"There. That's much better!" declared the witch, turning to the still-frozen Grodek and levitating him towards her. "Now, my good fellow, it's very much time that you and I were on our way. I can't spend all day dawdling on the side of a mountain playing with the locals when there's an errant grandchild to find, you know."

Within five minutes, she had reached the bottom of the incline with her captive, She leisurely surveyed the destruction she had caused to her enemies. Including the half-eaten Fragat, six lifeless bodies now littered the valley; a seventh (very unhappy) chap was being stoned into oblivion by the very ground he used tread on without a care in the world, while the eighth was entertaining her with what was surely the worst excuse for a Highland Fling she had ever come across.

Well, what could she expect? If he hadn't grown up knowing the advantage of a decent bowl of porridge or the stirring call of the bagpipes, the fool was hardly likely to be able to tell the difference between a Dashing White Sergeant and a Wizard's Waltz.

Which was just as well, really. The very last thing she could stomach at the moment was a kilt-clad orc trying to impress her with the size of his sporran.

The twitching dancer was still attempting to reach the now-level witch to slice her with his sword before she reached the road, so - with a final glare of derision - Augusta pointed her wand at him and it emitted a hot stream of boiling tar. Agonised gurgles filled the air as the traumatised orc abandoned his goal and made a very jerky dash for the flowing river in the distance. Clouds of putrid black smoke streamed behind him all the way.

Now then: Rohan.

Releasing Grodek from the Petrificus Totalus, the formidable matriarch marched him at wandpoint towards the road, giving him ample time to cast a very alarmed gaze over his unfortunate comrades before turning south.

"Take a good look," she said, as they passed the broken bodies of the scouting party. "For I shall see to it that you have a taste of their misfortune if there's any more trouble from you."

Grodek glanced at the old woman: with her fierce expression, woolly dress, green overcoat and what was (probably) the last idiot that tried to defy her wobbling from her hat, she painted a truly terrifying figure, and he knew without a shadow of a doubt that she would deliver on her threat.

Grunting what passed for agreement, he led the witch down the road in the direction of Orthanc, all the while cursing the stroke of misfortune that had led to his clapping eyes on this Wicked Witch of the West.

Next to her, Saruman was a bumbling novice.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Author's Note: _I know that Augusta seems an unlikely candidate to go charging through war-torn ME, but she's a heck of a woman and I thought her impressive turn against Dawlish had earned her a little adventure of her own.

Middle Earth beware!

Augusta and the loo scene: I just couldn't resist. Also thought it might be a sensible idea to make a quick reference to some often overlooked basic bodily functions. She may be a witch, but she's still biological.

Boromir's fate shall be decided in the next two or three chapters, so if you want me to save him (or let him perish, you bloodthirsty bunch) let me know and I'll give it serious consideration. Otherwise, I'll just go with what I have planned for him...

Kara's Aunty :)


	9. Preparations and Departures

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. and Lord of the Rings and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

**Credit: **www dot hp-encyclopedia dot com and www dot Tuckborough dot net, doncasterhaikupoet dot blog dot co dot uk/2006/10/17, www dot jrrvf dot com/cgi-bin/hisweloke/sintrans dot cgi

**Please review - it really _is_ my only reward.**

**Not Quite A Maia**

**Chapter 9**

* * *

_Third Age: 15th_ _February 3019_

_Lothlórien_

They were leaving tomorrow.

Neville knew this because Aragorn had summoned the Fellowship together in the pavilion that morning to give them the news. An air of quiet determination had fallen over the company as the reality of their impending departure hit home.

Even Boromir had been rather sombre at the news (Molly's Cheering charm was beginning to wear off, thank goodness. The man of Gondor had been almost manic with joy for the past two days and Neville wasn't sure if poor Aragorn's liver could take much more of it).

Now, as the afternoon bled into evening and the Fellowship packed for the upcoming journey, the young wizard tightened the fastenings of his knapsack and decided to take a walk to the archery field to practice some of the Offensive spells his Guardian had been teaching him. Molly was lecturing the hobbits (Merry and Pippin) to stop playing with her knitting needles (which they'd fished out of her bag when she was distracted and, thinking they had stumbled upon a spare pair of wands, were currently running around the fountain trying to turn the water into ale), so he knew that she would be unavailable to tutor him for at least an hour (the cousins were proving rather elusive).

Mentally wishing her luck, he tucked his wand into the waistband of his jeans and made his way through the trees to the large field where the elven archers honed their deadly accurate skills. It was empty when he arrived, for which he was grateful - there was nothing more distracting than a critical audience (Gimli, though impressed with his magical abilities, did not think much of his technique and was constantly berating him to lift his arm and put more 'swing' into his movements).

The teenager shook his head at the thought of the well-meaning dwarf. Casting spells was not about force of movement, it was more a matter of determination and flexibility of the wrist and Gimli was not a professor of magic - maybe when the gruff dwarf started teaching at Hogwarts, he'd pay more attention to his critique, but until then ...

And a wand was not a ruddy axe!

Oh, well. Never mind. He could flex his wrist to his heart's content until dinner without worrying about Gimli's opinion.

Striding towards the targets, Neville plucked his wand from his waistband and stopped roughly thirty feet away from them. He cast a _Mobiliquernusaum_ Charm at the wooden circles and they began to run madly around the field. Moving targets were much more realistic! Raising his arm, Neville fired. His defenceless victims sped around the grass like headless chickens, unarmed and without so much as a word of protest as he scorched them, hexed them, cursed them and generally blasted them into oblivion. Forty minutes later, the air was thick with smoke as the smouldering remnants of the Galadhrims' targets lay scattered about the field.

Oh, dear. Perhaps he shouldn't have been quite so enthusiastic in his practice; the wooden circles were beyond the help of even a good _Reparo_. And, much to his horror, one of his spells had gone awry and hit a tree near the edge of the field. He blinked his eyes in astonishment at what he had done.

Neville Longbottom had just given Lothlórien its first-ever pink Mallorn tree.

Crikey, how had he managed that? And what the ruddy hell had he been thinking, firing a Colour Change Charm during battle simulation? He must've got the incantation mixed up again with Molly's _Your-I-Nation_ Jinx (guaranteed to have even the most persistent foe abandon a battle and scamper off to the nearest loo), but still. It was hardly likely to be a useful spell in the middle of a confrontation. Whatever next? A Hair Thickening Charm?

He tried to imagine the scenario: the Fellowship backed into a corner in some Merlin-forsaken country with no way out of the abandoned shack they sought refuge in. Boromir and Aragorn in a battle stance before the front door, while Gimli chomped at the bit to 'hack the enemy into the afterlife'; Legolas flitting furiously between the windows, gallantly showering a million orcs with only ten arrows; the hobbits quaking in fear somewhere in the background while he and Molly fired _Reductos_ into the enemy's front line. But the enemy would be relentless and capture them all, dragging them out into the open to slay them and steal their master's prize. A frenzied dialogue would follow while the others looked to him for help:

Fierce orc Leader: "_I'll rip yore 'earts out and string 'em round me neck as trophies!"_

Aragorn (looking proud and defiant): _"I am Isildur's heir! I will slay you before you draw your next breath!"_

Boromir (still under the remnant influence of Molly's charm): _"Hail my friendly neighbourhood Orc! Let us share a glass of wine before we commence with the brutalities of war!"_

Legolas (looking like a _Witch Weekly _centrefold): _"I am __**not **__a house-elf and I shall make you rue the day it crossed your tiny Orc mind!"_

Gimli (s_winging_ his ruddy axe): "_Let me at them! Let me at them!"_

Merry and Pippin (brandishing the steak knives that passed for hobbit swords): _"We'll die before we let you harm our cousin! Unless you have any mushrooms on you ..."_

Sam (brandishing the flowers Boromir had implied he could use as weapons): _"Don't you dare come any closer, or I'll prick you with my thorns!"_

Frodo (looking fed-up at being cornered yet again): _"The Black Riders could not take me! The Mines of Moria could not hold me! The sight of you does not frighten me! Though I do admit, the weight of the Ring is absolutely killing me ..."_

Molly (face redder than her hair as she fires Scourgify spells left, right and centre): _"What a terrible state to leave the house in! You smell like a rotting corpse!"_

And finally, him, Neville Longbottom: the hope of the Fellowship, the Chosen One of the Valar. All eyes swivel to him in wondrous expectation as he faces the orc captain and asks: _"If I take care of that receding hairline for you, will you and your friends sod off and leave us alone?"_

Yeah, because that was _bound_ to work!

Pulling himself from the distraction of his overactive imagination, Neville surveyed the field guiltily for onlookers and was relieved to find that his mutilation of the Mallorn and slaughter of Galadriel's finest oak target stands remained unsupervised. He walked to the pink tree and fired a quick _Finite _to return it to its former glory.

It didn't work.

Thinking he'd mispronounced the spell, he tried again - with no result.

Well, that was just bloody brilliant! Why wasn't it working?

The confused teenager spent several minutes more trying various spells to correct his mistake, but the once-proud tree remained a rather fetching shade of baby pink.

Excellent! He'd ruined one of the elves' prize Mellyrn - the pride of every Lothlórien native and the wonder of one small hobbit from the Shire. Galadriel would be thrilled. What the ruddy hell was he going to say to her?

"_Thanks for accepting me into your fabulous home; for the trust you've shown in me despite these dangerous times; for giving me the chance to show I'm more than a fresh-faced, seventeen-year-old stranger from a distant land with a taste for adventure and a smart mouth; and for letting me prove my worthiness to aid your Fellowship and kick some Dark Lord arse. Oh, by the way, sorry about the tree."_

Hmm. Perhaps not.

He sighed. Well, better go and own up to it then before some poor elf took a hissy fit and started accusing him of sabotaging their renowned haven.

Turning on his heel, he vanished the ruined targets and started towards the gate, dreading the encounter with his beautiful hostess. Good thing Gran wasn't here. She'd kill him if she thought he was giving the 'noble name of Longbottom' a bad reputation.

He was so distracted by the thought of Augusta Longbottom's dreadful ire that he failed to notice the shocked quartet entering the field and he almost walked into Haldir and his brothers.

At least Molly was smiling at him (sort of).

"Ah, there you are, Neville dear. I thought you might be here practising." Molly was having trouble tearing her gaze from the tree. "I just wanted to let you know that dinner will be in half an hour -"

"Our Mallorn!" interrupted the seriously unimpressed Marchwarden, glaring at him. "What have you done to our Mallorn?"

Rumil and Orophin had been robbed of the power of speech and stood gazing in utter shock at the pretty pink tree.

Neville debated the possibility of blaming it on Gimli (having heard of the dwarf's first encounter with the brothers and thinking he might be an easier target), but dismissed it.

"Well, er, I ... erm, that is -"

The elf bored holes through him with his accusing grey eyes.

"It was an accident. I didn't know it had happened; I was too busy blasting away at targets."

A haughty glance around the field by his accuser confirmed the absence of the wooden circles. "_What_ targets, Master Longbottom? Despite the gift of my superior Elven vision, I am fully unable to locate any."

_Superior elven vision_? Smug git. Neville kicked himself for not conjuring new targets before he'd decided to trot off and make his confession.

The smouldering elf took a dangerous step towards him.

"Which rather defeats the purpose of our walk here to practice, do you not agree?"

Brilliant. Gran wasn't going to kill him: Haldir was.

Attempting a winning smile (à la Fred and George), the teenager tried to bluff his way out of a potential confrontation. "Yeah, right. Sorry about that. I was just on my way to find Molly to see if she could conjure some more, but look! You brought her with you. Shouldn't be too much of a problem for her to sort out - she's a great witch, you know."

"Why, thank you, Neville!" declared the smiling matron.

"And the tree?" demanded Haldir.

"Oh, the tree … that might be bit harder. I did try to revoke the spell, but it doesn't seem to be working."

Rumil and Orophin nearly fainted in horror. A pink Mallorn? In Lothlórien? The elves of Imladris would never let them hear the end of it! And Thranduil would probably forego the defence of Mirkwood just to visit and laugh at them. They glared at Neville too.

"No need to worry now, dears. I'll just pop over and give it a quick wave and, before you know it, it'll be like it never happened!"

Molly beamed at the trio of angry elves and trotted over to the blushing tree, but even her best efforts didn't avail the Mallorn of its trendy new look.

Sidling round the brothers (as inconspicuously as possible), Neville mumbled his intent to inform Galadriel at the first opportunity when a firm hand clamped down on his shoulder.

"Allow my brothers and I to show you the way," drawled Haldir, cocking a haughty eyebrow. "We would not wish for you to become lost during your travels."

"Er, thanks but that's all right. I know where to go."

"It would be our pleasure, Master Longbottom," said Rumil darkly.

Neville didn't doubt it. "No, really. I know the way," he replied, slightly alarmed. Blimey, what did they think he was going to do - make a run for it?

"We absolutely _insist_," said Orophin, making Neville's jaw drop.

He hadn't realised Orophin was capable of speech.

Throwing a panicked glance at Molly, he saw her conjuring more targets at the end of the field, apparently having given up on the tree. She seemed to be deliberately keeping her back to him. What was all that about? Wasn't she in Middle Earth for exactly this reason: to watch his back in times of trouble?

As the trio of angry elves marched him towards Galadriel's flet (he was _so_ looking forward to climbing the ruddy ladder again), Neville debated whether or not it was too late to Apparate back to the Valar's shiny halls and ask them to replace his Guardian with someone who'd do their utmost to look out for his best interests. But instead of heading towards the largest (silver, not pink) Mallorn, they turned a corner and walked down a gentle slope, through a high green hedge and into an enclosed garden, where the Lady of the lands herself awaited him.

He gulped.

The foursome came to a stop ten metres away. "My Lady, Master Longbottom, as you requested," Haldir announced, bowing before the graceful elleth.

_As you expected_? What, she knew already? Did she have people trailing him, to spy on the havoc he left in his wake?

Galadriel dismissed the brothers and beckoned him closer. This was it: she was going to accuse him of being irresponsible for ruining a tree that had 'seen more winters than he', chastise him for treating the home of his hosts with such careless regard, or worse - sack him from his job as protector of the Fellowship! After all, if he couldn't take care of a ruddy tree, how could he be expected to take care of Middle Earth's best hope for salvation?

But the Lady of Lothlórien didn't seem too concerned with the state of the local flora (for the moment). Beckoning him to follow, she turned and led him down a flight of steps into a little hollow. The stream from the fountain on the hill ran through it and at the bottom there was a carved pedestal with a wide silver basin. Galadriel lifted the ewer next to it and filled it with water.

Thank goodness! He was parched after that workout in the archery field. But there were no glasses or cups lying about. What was he supposed to drink out of? Shrugging, he conjured a cup and held it out eagerly as she approached him.

He flushed like a toilet when she gave him an odd look and poured the sparkling water into the silver basin on the pedestal.

How embarrassing! He hastily vanished his empty cup.

"Come, young Wizard. Cast your gaze upon my Mirror."

Er, what mirror?

Scanning the small garden furtively, Neville failed to spot anything resembling something as grand as the Window of Arda.

"Are you afraid?"

Of a mirror? He might not be the best looking bloke in the world (especially in _this_ world), but his own reflection had yet to send him screaming into apoplexy. Perhaps he should just ask her where the mirror was?

Fortunately, he didn't have to because she indicated the bowl.

_That_ was a mirror?

"Here is the Mirror of Galadriel," she said in a breathy voice. "To glimpse in its depths is to know the pain of sorrows old, the struggle of times present and the anxiety of years unborn."

Wow. Depressing or what? It sounded to him like a massive body swerve was in order and Neville wondered if she'd think him rude for declining. If he'd wanted to be miserable, he could have stayed with Haldir and the Brothers Grim and let them knock the stuffing out of him for feminising the Mallorn. Odd that they hadn't mentioned it to her.

"Oh, well, that sounds nice."

She smiled at him knowingly and he wondered if she'd recanted on the promise not to delve into his mind.

"The Mirror shows that which I command, mortal Wizard. If it is your desire only to see that which pleases you, then so shall it be."

Neville perked up at that. Maybe he'd get a sneaky peak of Varda pining for him ...

"However -"

Typical. A ruddy catch.

"- wiser is the one who allows it to show what it will; for in the unbidden, much may be learned."

Hmm. Apparently he had a choice: the depression of her initial offer (which he didn't much fancy), a glimpse of the woman who'd won his affections (the _married _woman who'd won his affections - Gran would hex his bits off), or the riddle of the unbidden.

Deciding he should do the noble thing and let the Lady choose what would be more beneficial to the Quest, he stepped towards the pedestal and said: "I'm ready for whatever you'd like to show me, my Lady."

"As you wish. But beware, mortal Wizard; for many is the one who believes his defences are hale, only to find that his sword is weak."

She was warning him _now_? _After_ he'd agreed to look? And what was wrong with saying 'Don't be too sure of yourself'?

Stifling his exasperation, he leaned over the bowl.

"Do not touch the surface of the water," Galadriel added.

He wondered idly what would happen if he did. Would the bowl explode in his face or would he melt into a puddle?

It didn't seem wise to try and find out, so he kept his hands clear of the edge of the bowl, resting them instead on the pedestal as he looked into the water. There didn't seem to be much there, really, except the reflection of his sweaty face. Otherwise all was dark.

Which was odd. It was early in the evening yet and the elven land still had plenty of light around it. Must be some sort of elf magic.

But then the darkness dissipated and to his surprise the surface became grey, then clear. Neville's eyes widened as the Battle of Hogwarts raged before his eyes and he saw himself ablaze under the Sorting Hat between the warring parties on the school lawn. The fire went out and his image reached into the hat, drew the Sword of Gryffindor and relieved Voldemort of his last link to immortality.

Blimey! That was quite impressive, actually.

The image vanished and another appeared. Outside his Yorkshire home, an overconfident Dawlish rapped smartly on the front door, fingering his wand in readiness. Gran answered it and he shoved his way into the house, brandishing his wand menacingly. Heated words were exchanged and then the unfortunate man got the fright of his life as Augusta Longbottom cursed and hexed him to within an inch of his existence before he could so much as fire a Full Body-Bind.

Neville was very impressed. Gran had hexed the idiot's clothes off (except his smalls - she was English, after all) and the garments had taken on a life of their own. His trousers were chasing him through the hallway, kicking his skinny legs; the shirt was taking hearty swings at his stomach while his overcoat boxed his ears and his shoes kept throwing themselves at his feet, making him trip and fall into the furniture every few seconds. Before he could muster a decent defence, Gran had him immobilised over the back of the couch and had charmed the fire poker to whack his behind while she lectured him from the safety of the display cabinet.

And that was before she did him the damage that put him in St Mungo's!

"That's my Gran," he said, beaming at his hostess. When his eyes returned to the bowl, the image shimmered and vanished, soon to be replaced by one of Boromir blowing on the Horn of Gondor in the middle of some strange woods as the Gondorian, Merry and Pippin struggled to fight off numerous orcs.

It wiped the smile off his face and he wondered if the scene was past or future.

Hopefully past, because if it was the future, then why the hell wasn't he there defending them?

Next, Molly appeared, looking absolutely driven by anger, tears of fury rolling down her cheeks as she blasted Reductos at a terrified horde of enemies during a truly epic battle. Massive elephants stomped about with strange contraptions bearing screaming men on their backs, while a blonde woman battled an enormous black-garbed stranger. He wondered where _he_ was until coloured shots of magic appeared from the far left, sending a wave of fire at a group of rampaging orcs.

Good. No reason why the ladies should have all the fun. But who was the blonde?

The image shifted before he had time to identify the mysterious female and he saw, lying abandoned on a bloody field, the strangest plant he'd ever seen. It looked like no more than a fern, but with slender red fronds tipped with gold. Gryffindor colours! Here, in Middle Earth! It swayed gently in the breeze, seeming very out of place on the crushed grass and scorched earth and he knew, as only a true Herbologist could, that there was something special about it. He wanted to pick it up and nurture it, take it to the nearest friendly bed of earth and sink its roots deep into the soil so that its perfect beauty would be preserved forever, but before he could examine its features in more detail, the image changed again.

Really, he wished it would stop doing that. What was the point in giving him half-glimpses? That plant could've been really important and the ruddy Mirror had left him hanging!

A face began to shimmer into view, distorted by sudden ripples from the water. As the image cleared, he saw Isildur's heir standing by the battlements of a great, white city staring into the distance, a dark frown marring his regal features. Neville wondered where the man was, for surely they were all supposed to be sneaking into Mordor? From what he had heard, Sauron's land was not exactly overflowing with clean, white buildings - unless the mad git was the world's first ever house-proud Dark Lord.

Another swirl, and now he saw himself back in Yorkshire, in the sanctuary of his own greenhouse, but he wasn't alone. The smiling profile of a Weasley boy came into view and Neville realised that this must be the future. George, it would seem, was to take him up on his offer of finding new ideas for Wheezes amidst his plants. It was nice to know the grieving twin would leave his room eventually and try to get back to some kind of normality. Molly would be relieved to hear about this. He really must tell her. The image vanished as George turned to clap his image-self on the shoulder, and the next thing he saw was the most alarming yet.

His own face filled the bowl, looking up at him from the water's surface, tense with fright. Suddenly a shadow fell across it. Neville watched in shock as his reflection's features twisted in horror - so much so that he could see the whites of his own eyes as they bulged from their sockets - and his mouth opened in a scream of agony that the vision did not allow his ears to hear.

What the bloody hell?

The water stirred as a dark shape bent over his other self and before he could see what happened next, the liquid cleared completely and he found himself looking at nothing more sinister than the bottom of the silver bowl.

He staggered back from the pedestal, mind buzzing with the last vision. Was that the future? At first, he thought it was a vision of the past, perhaps when he was being Crucio-ed at school, but the scars of those curses had been carved into his reflection's face already.

It must be the future.

A shiver ran through him as he realised what may lie ahead for him. For _all_ of them. This was no camping trip to the Yorkshire dales they were embarking on. It was a desperate flight to attempt the only option remaining for the Free Peoples of Middle Earth to finally have some peace; a battle for the survival of a whole world.

And sacrifices may have to be made.

"Many choices lay before you, son of Longbottom, many paths for wandering feet to tread upon in the search for victory."

Galadriel was staring at him intensely from the opposite side of the pedestal and his worried gaze met her lovely features.

"But not all shall lead where you wish to go. That which you have seen in the Mirror may prove to be of aid or may cloud your future judgement." Her tone was grave. "Do not allow one moment of darkness to sway you from your task, for only in the depths of blackness do we learn to strive towards the light."

Easy for her to say.

She moved towards him and cupped his chin. "Though there are those of your kind whose skill has earned them great acclaim, they that could have been chosen for this task over one who appears little more than a noble tender of plants, this duty falls to you -and not without reason. Not all magic lies in the grip of a staff. A defiant mind and a will of mithril may conquer where the untold power of a Wizard's arts cannot. This is a lesson you have already learned. Do not forget it."

Right. Did that mean he should leave his wand here and travel to Mordor just to give Sauron a piece of his mind? Perhaps the Dark Lord would capitulate if he told him to sod off and die (which might work if it was Gran saying it)? It was a tempting thought.

"I don't understand. I thought I was here because the Fellowship needed a wizard."

"I have not said otherwise, young one." She dropped her hand and left him standing alone by the pedestal feeling somewhat confused.

"The Mirror does not always show what will happen, only what may, if fate travels a certain path. Your own path lies before you, as it does for all the Fellowship, and indeed, all Free Peoples of Arda. The gift of your magic will be a blessing on the Quest, of that I am certain; but only if you know when its power is best put to use. Consider always the gift of your mind and the wisdom it has accrued from struggles past, for there may be times when it shall benefit the Fellowship more than a wave of your staff. Go now, son of Longbottom and consider what you have seen."

Neville trudged back up the steps to the hedge trying to work out what was more important: his wand or his mind. He seriously doubted his not-so-impressive academic skills were going to save the day, if that's what she meant, because the only Outstanding he'd ever achieved was in Herbology.

Then again, his Defence Against the Dark Arts O.W.L. had been a surprising Exceeds Expectations due to his sheer determination in the DA. And who knows what his N.E.W.T. might have been, if he'd had the chance to sit it? So he could only assume she was referring to that. Funny, though: he'd never thought of himself as particularly strong-minded, even during the year of rebellion at school. It had just seemed natural to take a stand against the Carrows when they were trying so hard to eliminate his friends. He couldn't just stand there and watch while they victimised innocent children.

His train of thought was interrupted by a soft call.

"Neville Longbottom?"

Neville turned back to gaze at the Lady of Lothlórien. She eyed him with a slight smile on her lips.

"Yes, my Lady?"

"I hope you have enjoyed your time in these lands. It has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Thanks. It's been great here! Everyone's so friendly. I wish I could've stayed longer, but ... oh, well. Needs must, I suppose. I'll miss it, though."

"And I shall miss you, brave child. However -" Her eyes sparkled mischievously "- if the desire to remind myself of your time here grows too great for mere memory to sate, I am pleased to know that I need do no more than pay a visit to the archery field and gaze upon the wonder of a maidenly Mallorn."

Bloody hell! She _knew_! How could she know? The Brothers Grim hadn't mentioned it.

His question must have clear on his scarlet face, for Galadriel said: "I am the Lady of these Woods, mortal Wizard, and your own kind is not the only race that possesses the art of that which you call magic. The very trees you see speak to me at will."

Well, that explained it: the ruddy trees told her.

"I'm _really_ sorry about that! I tried to fix it, but it wouldn't work -."

"That is because my arts prevented it. I find the thought of such a colourful reminder of your visit very amusing - and the tree has no objections. I would ask that you refrain from using your magic on my other Mellyrn friends, for your own sake. My Marchwarden and his brothers do not share the same sense of humour that I have been fortunate enough to inherit."

The tree has no objections? Blimey!

"Er ... right. Of course. Whatever you say. Thanks for, em, letting me look in your Mirror."

A graceful nod of dismissal, then Neville turned and left the beautiful elleth to her secret garden and made his way back to the others for the evening meal.

He _really_ hoped Molly hadn't invited Haldir and his scary siblings to join them.

**XXX**

"Are you all right, dear?"

It was an hour after the evening meal, and Neville, leaning against one of the tall trees across from their table, turned to find Molly frowning up at him in concern.

"Yeah, I'm fine, just ... thinking."

She smiled in understanding. "You looked in her Mirror, didn't you?"

Brows arching in surprise, he nodded. "What, did you look into it as well?"

"Of course. Lady Galadriel invited me to see it before I came to the archery field."

Ah. That explained why she hadn't faced him after she'd finished conjuring new targets: she'd known he was next in line for a sneaky peek into the future.

Molly read his face clearly. "I'm sorry I didn't say anything to you, dear, but Galadriel didn't want you to be unduly influenced by my own experience. How did it go?"

That was something he'd been mulling over before the witch had disturbed him. Thoughts of all the visions he'd been privy to had been clamouring for his attention: some of them had been obvious glimpses of the past, but the one with Boromir and the hobbits was rather more ambiguous in its time span. As for the elephant scene, well, it seemed they were in for some rather stellar encounters with the enemy at some point in the future and Neville was glad he'd made the most of the archery field during his stay to practice his wand work.

He didn't really want to dwell on the memory of his own screaming face.

"It was ... different," he replied as he took a seat on a tree root, his Guardian taking her rest on one across from him. "I saw my Gran and Aragorn, and you as well; I saw some of the other Fellowship members, and there was this woman I don't know who was fighting a really nasty looking bloke in black."

"I see."

Which reminded him ...

"Oh, and George came to the greenhouse at my place. Thought you might like to know that."

Her eyes shone suspiciously. "Oh? Well, it's good to know he finally gets out of the house. I hope he was behaving himself?"

He smirked. Molly Weasley was ever the mother.

"Yeah. He seemed to be enjoying himself 'cos he was smiling."

"Hardly surprising," she said briskly. "Put that boy in a roomful of dangerous plants and he's bound to come up with at least a dozen ways to wreak havoc on the sanity of responsible adults everywhere. No doubt he was planning how to turn your prize Snargaluff Pods into fire-breathing foxglove and sell them off as novelties to teenagers looking for an excuse to get out of their History of Magic lessons."

Her tone was fussy, but her eyes were sparkling with affection.

Wow. That was great idea! If only the twins had thought of that while _he_ was still at school …

"What did _you_ see then?" he asked curiously, hoping to make some sense of his own visions by comparing them to hers.

Her face tensed slightly at the question before she smoothed it into a mask of indifference.

"Oh, the usual for such circumstances, I imagine. Lots of fighting, lots of running and lots of unwashed bodies," she replied, glaring in disapproval at the as yet pristine forms of the Fellowship across the clearing.

That wasn't much help.

"But did you see anything that, you know, stood out?" he asked, hoping for a more specific reply.

"Well, I did see Harry and Ginny getting married," she informed him with a beatific smile. "Such a relief to know that she'll finally stop mooning over him and drag him down the aisle. Not that she _had_ to drag him down the aisle, of course. Far too much of a lady to act in such a wanton manner."

Great. He wanted to know about the possible dangers they faced in the wilds of Middle Earth, and she was fixating on her daughter's love life.

Neville didn't press her any further, getting the feeling that she didn't want to talk about her visions any more. He respected her right to privacy, but couldn't dismiss the feeling that she was keeping something from him - something that might prove useful during the quest.

Well, he'd have to trust her to open up to him when she thought the time was right.

Aragorn interrupted their cosy chat a few moments later to summon them to another meeting with Galadriel and Celeborn, and Neville had no more time to wonder what Molly was hiding from him.

Or why.

**XXX**

_16th February 3019_

Breakfast the next morning had been a solemn affair. Frodo's face was taut with trepidation as they cleared the table for the last time and Sam was just as bad, hovering over his master anxiously and trying to cheer him up.

A useless task, really, given the circumstances, but you had to give the optimistic gardener points for trying.

A group of elves had visited earlier to bestow them with gifts of Lembas (which, surprisingly, Gimli had been the first to stuff in his face, not realising that a single one would fill his belly for a whole day and making the elves laugh in disbelief). Every member of the Fellowship had also received a hooded Lórien cloak, which Neville admired for its silky feel and shifting colours. He did have Harry's Invisibility cloak stuffed in his knapsack, but didn't want to turn down the elves' kind offer. Anyway, it would probably be better to wear that for the main part of the quest: if he slung the Wizarding cloak around his shoulders too soon, the others might die of fright to see his apparently disembodied head floating through the forest of their hosts' home.

Molly divided the Lembas among the members and made sure the hobbits stored it in their little bags, before waving her wand over the Light of Varda and securing it to herself once more with a Sticking charm. Neville, exiting the pavilion, found her shortly after.

"Where's Aragorn?" he asked, searching the area for the missing Ranger.

"Gathering a few more of those athelas leaves for the trip, dear. Are you all ready?"

"As ready as I'll ever be, I suppose."

"Good. Well then, we'd better collect the others and be ready to head off when Aragorn calls."

Isildur's heir returned at that moment, followed by Legolas, Gimli, Boromir and (much to Neville's alarm) Haldir. He wondered if the Marchwarden was still upset about the Mallorn, but didn't fancy getting close enough to find out.

"Gather round my friends," called Aragorn to the remaining travellers, and Neville followed Molly and the hobbits to the fountain (though he stood as far from the still-frowning Haldir as possible).

"As you know from our council with the Lord and Lady of the lands yester eve, we have yet to decide where our final journey will take us. Do we make for Minas Tirith to aid in the fight against the Enemy, or slip across the borders of the dark lands into Mordor? We may find ourselves travelling wherever our feet lead us as one party, united until the bitter end. Or it may be that we find it prudent to separate, with some taking one path while others tread roads more dangerous."

The assembled crowd listened silently as his gaze settled on each of them, one by one.

"Whatever we do, wherever we go, be it as one or many, know this: we are the last hope of the Free Peoples of the West. In our hands we hold the destiny of untold many and we have a duty to them to aid in their deliverance. Our paths may be dark, and they may be troubled, but the success of our mission depends on how we face our trials and the courage we draw from them. We must not allow our own fears and differences to consume us, for more is at stake than the small concerns of individuals. Gandalf himself gave his life for the success of our Quest. We owe him no less than our complete devotion to its final success."

Neville felt rather inspired by the noble man's words and was quite willing to march all the way to Mordor and take on the flaming Eye of Sauron with a really good _Aguamenti_, until he realised the others were throwing assessing glances at him and Molly.

Probably wondering if they were up to the task.

But no one made any comment and Aragorn continued with his glorified pep-talk.

"Although know not our final path as of yet, this much is clear: we shall travel down the Anduin for many days until we reach the Falls of Rauros - and_ then_ we shall make our decision: Minas Tirith or Mordor."

Boromir, no longer the happy chappy of days recently past, looked rather grim, but Aragorn refused to meet his eyes, so he cast his gaze instead to the Ring-bearer standing not six feet away. A sinking feeling hit Neville in the stomach. It would seem that his troubled friend was still in two minds about the value of the One Ring as an aid in his desperate battle, despite their chat in the archery field. He'd have to keep a close watch on him over the next few days.

"Now," said Aragorn, winding down his pep talk, "let us commence our journey. Haldir will lead us through the city to our point of departure. We shall leave Lothlórien from the banks of the Silverlode and may the Valar grace our Quest thereafter with their blessings."

The assembled men, elf, dwarf, hobbits and wizarding travellers then followed Haldir through Caras Galadhon, with elven song from the talans above floating through the air for company. It heartened the teenager somewhat, and allayed the nervous tension that threatened to overwhelm him. But the songs were left far behind them as they passed through the great gates at the city's entrance and over the white bridge, fading into nothing as they turned from the paved road and headed several miles down through the forest until, finally, a few hours later, they came to a high green wall. The Fellowship passed through an opening onto a green lawn studded with little golden flowers that Neville had never seen before.

"They are _elanor_," provided the firm voice of Haldir, who'd managed to sneak up on him without being noticed. "They grow only in the haven of these lands under the protection of its Lord and Lady."

The teenager eyed him cautiously. "Er, they're very pretty," he offered, hoping the Marchwarden would be satisfied with that and leave him alone.

"Indeed. A gentle, golden bloom that reflects the light of the sun's rays. 'Twould be a pity to see them blush like a maiden under the spell of your Wizard's arts."

Neville grimaced (and blushed like a maiden).

"Don't worry, my wand's safe in my trousers. I won't touch your flowers."

The elf favoured him with a lift of his brow. "See that you do not, young Wizard."

The smug immortal turned on his heel and led them towards the banks of the Silverlode, and Neville thanked Merlin for his lucky escape. When he reached what appeared to be a little pier made of white wood and stones, his eyes widened.

Upon the water were many boats and barges. Most were white or grey, but a few were brightly coloured and shone in silvers, golds or greens. All were moored by the pier and bobbed slightly as the current of the stream tugged happily at their hulls.

"Oh, look - boats!" cried Merry in delight.

"Oh, look - boats," muttered Sam in despair.

It seemed the little gardener was not keen on a trip down the river.

"Don't worry," Neville said to the stocky hobbit in reassurance. "I'm sure they're sturdy enough, if the elves made them. We'll be all right."

"Begging your pardon, Mr Neville, but how many Elves've you actually seen on a boat?"

Eh, none, come to think of it.

"I've never seen any," he admitted.

"Well, that's as I thought," replied the dejected gardener. "I've seen plenty of Elves in trees, on trees and near trees, but I've never seen an Elf in a _boat_. Maybe they just builds them, paints them pretty colours and then leaves them here as a sort of decoration? You know, like I'd arrange the garden of Bag End to make Mr Frodo smile?"

Trying hard not to crack a smile at Sam's unhappy expression, Neville clapped him on the shoulder comfortingly. "I think that if the elves made those boats, it was probably for a better reason than decoration."

"Thought you might say that," he mumbled miserably before following Frodo and Aragorn to one of the little grey boats the elves had readied for their use.

Haldir made the travellers step into and out of the boats several times, to familiarise themselves with the process of embarking and disembarking while they were still near solid ground, then Neville followed Legolas and Gimli to their boat while Molly joined Boromir, Merry and Pippin ("In case he needs another Cheering charm, dear. He's looking a bit grim at the moment, you know").

Horrified, he'd managed to talk her out of using her wand on the son of the Steward (again) by pointing out what a bad idea to make his future conduct reliant on the whim of a wand. "He needs to make his own decisions, Molly, without the influence of magic. Let him be his own man for a while: he's not a bad sort and I know he'll make the right one."

Molly, frowning in total confusion, asked what decision he was referring to. Neville mentally slapped himself before doing some furious back-pedalling. "You know, whether to go to Gondor or come with us to Mordor."

"Ah, I see. Well, I suppose you're right. Although, I'm not trying to control him, you know; he would still be making his own decisions under a _Cheering_ Charm - he'd just be doing so with a smile on his face and a spring in his step."

"I know, but, I'm not sure it's such a good idea for him to be 'springing' about in the middle of a river."

A motherly pat to his arm followed this nugget of wisdom and she left to join her fellow seafarers.

Never having rowed a boat before (Hogwarts' own rowed themselves), Neville found he was quite looking forward to the experience. As he took his seat at the back of the boat, Legolas instructed him to grab onto the oars and row with him in tandem. Unsure of exactly how to go about it, he observed the blond elf until he got the gist, then gripped his own handles, pulling them towards him in a high arch before pushing them away in a much lower one. Aragorn's boat passed them; a rather pale looking Sam clutched the side of his boat as he threw wistful glances back at the shore. Now it was Frodo's turn to comfort him, and the Ring-bearer laid a reassuring hand on the gardener's shoulder, The touch drew Sam's gaze back to the boat.

Personally, Neville didn't know why the stocky hobbit was so reluctant to be on the water; this rowing business was a right lark! _He_ was having a grand old time watching the shore slipping away from them under the raw power of his rotating arms, and a rare feeling of complete manliness overtook him as they sped along the bubbling stream.

If only Varda could see him now!

Oh, perhaps she could? The Valar did have the Window of Arda, after all. With that thought in mind and a fetching smile on his face, Neville flipped his Elven cloak carelessly over his shoulders and got stuck into the job of propelling the vessel as far and as quickly down the Silverlode as possible.

"Master Longbottom, why the haste?" demanded Gimli, who sat directly before him. The dwarf twisted his bushy head around. "We have not yet reached the Anduin. If you keep this pace up much longer, lad, we shall break from the rest of the Company before evening falls!"

Gimli's sharp remark brought him back to his senses (which was just as well, because his arms were killing him). Wiping the stupid grin off his face (the dwarf was somewhat alarmed by his inexplicable good humour), he slowed his pace, matching that of Legolas, and the boat soon fell back into line with the other two.

A satisfied nod from the dwarf, who resumed his watch of the stream ahead.

Soon they turned a sharp bend, and the company saw a large swan sailing towards them. Sunlight glinted off its white body and its beak shone golden. It was a thing of beauty and grace in the middle of the water and Neville was almost jealous that Lothlórien could boast such an impressive sight while Hogwarts was stuck with a giant squid.

The bird's white wings half-lifted and suddenly, it began to ... sing?

A _singing _swan?

Thinking that might be a good name for a (girly) pub, the young wizard let the flow of sweet music bless his ears as they drew nearer.

Which was when he discovered it was a ruddy boat.

He lowered his flushing face, thankful that he hadn't vocalised his bright idea for a new business venture. Fortunately, he wasn't the only one to have mistaken the elegant vessel for a giant bird. Gimli was muttering about the frilly ways of the elves, making Legolas laugh in amusement.

Aragorn's boat drew alongside the swan first and Galadriel stood resplendent in white with a circlet of golden flowers in her hair. Celeborn, standing tall and imposing beside her, invited the company to lunch before they left. All four boats made for the shore, where everyone disembarked and followed their hosts. Sitting on the wide grassy lawn, the Fellowship then shared their one and only meal with the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien.

**XXX**

After the brief but filling repast, Celeborn spoke gravely and at some length of their coming journey, describing the imminent watery route in that strange manner of speech which all elves seemed to be fond of, before making them aware that Boromir and any who wished to go with him, should leave the Great River above Rauros and cross the Entwash before it entered the marshes.

Blimey, these lands didn't half have strange names. The Dead Marshes? Fangorn? Emyn Muil? Cirith Gorgor? Whatever happened to sensible names like Slackbottom, Chorlton Cum Hardy, Crapstone, or Ham, near Sandwich? Good English names, all of them!

His mind wandered for a minute as he contemplated all the wondrous names from all four countries in the UK that might provide a good alternative to the terribly dramatic ones of the People of the West. It was as he was making his way through this list of possibilities that Pippin interrupted him.

"What are you thinking about?"

"Lord Berkeley's Knob," he replied, without ... thinking.

Molly, who was standing next to them, gave a gasp of horror and clutched at her ample chest. "_What _did you say?" she screeched, swatting furiously at the back of his head with her free hand.

"Ow!" he cried in surprise, looking at the seething matron in disbelief "What the ruddy hell did you do that for?"

She closed in on him with the disapproving glare shared by mothers everywhere and waggled her finger at him.

"Your language! What in Merlin's name were you thinking about to utter such a disgraceful thing?"

Disgraceful thing? What was she on about?

Her righteous fury had attracted the attention of ... well, everyone and his face burned as the elegant company watched in baffled amusement at the very public dressing down.

"I didn't say anything!" he hissed in embarrassment, but Molly's frown deepened.

"Yes you did, and quite frankly, I'm astonished. Who the devil is Lord Berkeley and why are you going on about his -"

She yanked him down by the collar of his shirt.

"- bits!"

Oh. Bloody. Hell. Molly thought he was having a pervy daydream in the middle of a really important speech by Celeborn!

"It's a place in Scotland. Lord Berkeley's Knob is a place in Scotland! Up in the far north."

"Oh. I see." The matronly witch calmed a little at the explanation. "Well, we're not in the far north of Scotland now, so pay attention, dear. There's no time for daydreaming when we should be listening to directions."

Rubbing his stinging head (and glaring at Pippin for instigating his total and utter embarrassment), Neville returned his mind to the conversation at hand when Celeborn resumed his narrative.

When the tall elven Lord had finished, chairs were brought out for the Lord and Lady and they passed a cup of parting around for the Fellowship to drink from before announcing they had gifts to impart. Everyone lined up before them and Neville found himself standing beside a rather menacing looking dwarf.

"What did you do to upset the good Witch?" asked Gimli, fingering his walking axe absently as Galadriel handed a gold and silver sheath to Aragorn.

"I didn't do anything," said Neville, annoyed that the incident hadn't been forgotten when there were other, more important matters, to be dealing with; like the fate of the world.

Galadriel now presented the Ranger with a green jewel, which he pinned to his breast.

"Is that so?" said Gimli, in a smooth voice. "'Tis of little matter now, I suppose, as you appear to have mollified the good Lady."

"Yeah, well, the good lady certainly Molly-fied me," muttered the teenager, rubbing his head absently.

The company edged forward and Boromir now stood in front of the lovely elleth. She handed him a golden belt, which the Gondorian accepted with a bow of thanks.

Gimli, however, was not finished with his own peculiar brand of male bonding and continued his spooky muttering to Neville. "Be sure that you do not upset her again, lad. I know you to be a good and noble young Man - but I would not think twice about hacking your legs off at the knees if you brought distress to her. The Fellowship could manage just as well with a Witch as with a Wizard."

Excellent! His very first death threat in Middle Earth - and from a friend, too! Life didn't get any better than this.

Merry and Pippin were beaming in delight with their new silver belts and Legolas remained speechless with awe when Galadriel awarded him a stunning Galadhrim bow. Next, she shared a few words with the furiously blushing Sam, calling him 'little gardener and lover of trees'. Neville wondered how she'd address him. Big gardener and scourge of the Mellyrn? Haldir's new best friend?

Which reminded him ...

He shrugged off his knapsack and hunted through it, finding his quarry just as Gimli shuffled his way in front of Galadriel. Closing the bag, he shouldered it once more straightened in time to see his hostess proclaim to one and all that none should call dwarves grasping and ungracious again. That made him roll his eyes. What nonsense! Gimli wouldn't think twice about _grasping_ his axe and _ungraciously_ hacking the teenager's respectable six foot form down to a more earth-hugging four foot two if he thought the young wizard was upsetting his Guardian.

But Neville couldn't help smiling fondly at the gruff dwarf when he made a very flowery request for a strand of the Lady's hair, something which made the assembled elves gasp in astonishment at his boldness. She, however, couldn't unbraid her hair fast enough and gifted the dwarf with not one, but three of the golden locks.

Aha. It would seem that the axe-wielding serial killer was a ladies man.

Tucking that little piece of information away for the future, Neville straightened up respectfully as he took the last few steps towards his beautiful hostess. He wasn't really expecting anything, seeing as how he and Molly had only arrived a few days ago, and he wanted to spare her blushes at having nothing there for them, so he thrust out the object he'd retrieved from his bag.

"We - that is, Molly and I - wanted to give you this."

Surprised, Galadriel accepted the earthenware jug which held the quinberry juice that Haldir had been disappointed to miss out on at their arrival.

"This is the last of the Lindon delicacy gifted to you by Cirdan the Shipwright," said the elleth, (probably wondering why he was trying to offload a potentially empty jar on her).

"Well, actually, we charmed it with an Ever-Full spell, so it'll keep refilling itself when it's been emptied. I wanted to give it to Haldir as an apology of sorts, you know - for ruining the Mallorn. And I know he's been dying to try it. But I forgot to hand it to him when we boarded the boats."

Her steady grey eyes regarded him solemnly.

"It's not just for him, though," he added hastily, thinking he'd somehow offended her by not including her in on the gift. "He can share it with everyone, because there'll always be enough to go around. It'll never run out, unless the jar gets broken."

"You never cease to surprise me, child," she replied, smiling softly. "I come to you bearing gifts, yet you usurp my role as benefactress by giving of your own meagre supplies. We of the Galadhrim accept with great honour this gift unasked for, and though it be a sweet reminder of the land of our final departure, from this moment on the taste of it will always bring to mind the grace and courage of two otherworldly Istari."

Molly, standing two people down, blushed. "That's a very nice thing to say, dear."

Galadriel and everyone present laughed merrily and Neville grinned. The ancient elleth probably hadn't been referred to as 'dear' for several thousand years.

"And this is my gift to you, mortal Wizard."

One of her maidens handed her a cloth wrapped bundle which she delicately unfolded. Inside were two buckled silver straps joined by a wide band, which was decorated with elvish script. Little loops of some strange material jutted out from the side of each strap. He accepted the gift in astonishment, marvelling both at her generosity and at the elven ability to whip up something so pretty in a manner of days.

If only he knew what the ruddy hell it was.

"If you strap this to your leg or arm, you may find it easier to transport your staff of power without risking the safety of the noble line of Longbottom," she whispered discreetly.

Gimli, unfortunately, heard her and started guffawing heartily.

"Oh, brilliant," he replied, mortified that she had more or less told him to be careful with the family jewels. Gran would highly approve. "Thanks very much, my Lady."

He moved on and she next presented a very solemn Frodo with a delicate glass phial that emitted sparkling white light, telling him he was not least in her thoughts, and that the phial would provide for him a light in dark places, when all others had gone out.

The Ring-bearer smiled at her and bowed his thanks, gentlehobbit that he was.

Gran would highly approve of him too.

Finally, Molly stopped before their hostess.

"And you, daughter of Prewett, who has lost so much, but would still take up arms to protect another's child. Truly you are a mother of many, and I gift you not once, but twice. From this day forth, you shall be known as _Naneth o Meleth Bronduai: _that is Mother of Enduring Love, in your tongue. For your second gift, I ask that you accept this small token."

Molly - who was holding back tears of emotion - accepted the gift offered to her. Neville peered over Frodo's head to get a look: it was a silver bowl inscribed with elvish runes, shot through with forest green and sky blue swirls, and the rim was decorated in gold leaf. The bowl was easily wide enough for a generous serving of Gran's beloved porridge and he frowned in puzzlement. How was that going to help Molly on the Quest? Was she supposed to use it to clobber the Enemy over the head with it? Not that he would put it past her ...

"This will bring you closer to that which you desire. But take heed: to lose yourself in its wonders may prove folly to the vibrancy of your true existence. Use it well, but use it sparingly."

"I don't quite understand, dear," said the rather perplexed witch. "It's very beautiful, and really, you shouldn't have gone to so much trouble just for me; but, well, what is it for?"

Galadriel smiled mysteriously. "You will know what to do with it when the time comes, mortal Witch."

With that, Celeborn rose and proffered an arm to his wife. Then they led the renewed Fellowship back down to the pier where they boarded their vessels once more. Soon, all three boats were full of the hope of the West and the shore bound elves thrust the pretty vessels out onto the water with long, grey poles. All eyes then turned back to watch the solitary form of their gracious hostess slipping slowly from sight as the Silverlode passed into the currents of the Great River. The boats picked up speed as they headed farther south until Neville could barely see her any more. One final lift of her shapely arm in farewell and she was gone, leaving only her sweet voice to sing them on their way.

It was a shame to be leaving the lands of Lothlórien, because it was there that he and Molly had made their first true friendships of the Quest, and the beautiful elven haven would always be associated with feelings of glowing peace and contentment in his memory.

Suddenly, the river swept round a bend and its banks rose sharply on either side, stealing Lothlórien forever more from his sight. Neville was sad to see it vanish.

Not as sad as Gimli, though. The gruff dwarf's eyes were leaking like a cracked pipe for his lost love and he spent the next five minutes bemoaning his misfortune to any within earshot. The teenager sympathised with him, patting his arm (cautiously) in a comradely fashion, but wondered if Celeborn wasn't secretly delighted to see the back of the mini-Casanova, given how quickly his wife had bestowed not one, but three strands of her precious hair to him.

Actually, now that Neville thought about it, Manwë must have been glad to see the back of _him_ too, with the way he'd been practically salivating at the feet of his wife. Suddenly, he ashamed of his behaviour. He'd been lusting after a married woman for almost a week now with little thought to how intolerable his obvious affection must be to the lady's spouse.

Not that the Vala need worry about him making a move on her, he would never do such a thing (even if he stood a chance of success, which - having met several dozen sickeningly attractive specimens of masculinity in Middle Earth already - he knew was laughable).

Determining not to dwell on thoughts of the beautiful deity any longer, and occupy himself only with matters of import to the Quest, Neville grabbed a paddle and helped his new friends steer the boat forward into adventures unknown.

Besides, perhaps the mysterious, sword-wielding blonde from his elephant vision was single …

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Author's Note_: Phew! I thought I was _never_ going to get them out of Lothlórien! But, out they are, and on their way smack, bang into the heart of trouble...

The 'sensible' names that Neville was thinking about during Celeborn's narrative are _real _places in England, with the exception of Lord Berkeley's Knob, which really _is_ in the north of Scotland. You see? I'm not a mad twat...really!

My Sindarin and Latin are absolutely non-existent and I had to surf the net to get the words I used, so if Molly's new elven name is the wrong way round, or Neville's spell to make the targets move is wrong, I hold my hands up to it.

Hope you enjoyed the chapter,

Kara's Aunty ;)


	10. The Making & Breaking of the Fellowship

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. and Lord of the Rings and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

**Credit: **www dot hp-encyclopedia dot com and www dot Tuckborough dot net, wikipedia dot org, cawley dot archives dot nd dot edu/cgi-bin/lookdown dot pl, dictionary dot co dot uk

**Please review - it really _is_ my only reward.**

**Not Quite A Maia**

**Chapter 10**

* * *

_Third Age: 17th__-24__th__ February 3019_

_River Anduin_

The days passed by slowly as the Fellowship occupied themselves with either rowing or keeping an eye peeled for pursuers.

Neville appreciated the need for caution and had himself been staying more alert since Sam mentioned the evening before that they were being followed by a 'log with eyes'. The little gardener had been referring to the creature Gollum, who was concealed behind a log he was propelling after the elven boats a small distance behind them, but there had been no obvious sign of the slippery creature since. So by the fifth day after the departure from Lothlórien, the sheer tedium of their journey was beginning to get to him.

Among other things.

Gimli was still harping on about the absence of his true love and Neville (although a big fan of the lovely elleth) thought that if he had to listen to one more word about Galadriel's endless virtues, he might charm the Dwarf's hair to strangle him.

It wouldn't have been so annoying really, if his stomach hadn't slowly discovered that the Great River was not nearly as harmless as the merry Silverlode. The current of the much larger body of water had been making his insides roil since they'd left the serenity of Lothlórien and it was difficult to concentrate on anything other than the gurgling of his protesting innards.

Boromir's boat drew even with them and, hoping for a distraction from his misery, he looked over to smile at Molly. She seemed to faring better than him and was laughing at the antics of the younger hobbits as they teased the man of Gondor about his rowing skills. Neville wished he felt well enough to join in their fun.

As the boat passed them, he could hear Merry proclaiming that the hobbits of Buckland were used to the water (unusual among hobbits in general, apparently) and to the teenager's dismay, the Brandybuck began to sway back and forth and side to side in the boat to prove his hardiness.

Of course, Pippin just had to emulate his idol and soon, as if commanded by a higher power, Neville's head was swaying back and forth, side to side, in synchronicity with their movements.

It was too much for his stomach.

His mouth began to water in that all-too-familiar way that precedes a right royal chucking-up and before he knew it, he was hanging over the edge of the Elven boat and spewing for England.

"Master Longbottom!" cried Legolas in dismay. "Are you well?"

Whatever happened to that superior elven vision that Haldir had bragged about back in Lothlórien? Clearly he was _not_ well!

"I ... I'll be a lot better if ... if you stop calling me that and ... just call ... me Neville," he gasped after the worst of it was over. Chilled sweat rolled down his back and he shivered. Blimey, he thought for a moment there he might throw up his _actual_ stomach.

The river must have had it in for him, though. As they passed by the thinning trees on the banks, the boat bucked slightly, skimming over a submerged trunk and although Legolas and Gimli managed to calm the vessel back down, they were unable to do the same for the miserable teenager. Head over the side once more, he heaved and retched for Wales (having done enough for his home country).

Gimli shook his head in bewilderment. "Can you not cast a spell or something to end your misery, lad?"

What? Like Avada Kedavra? That ought to do it.

The shaking wizard slumped into the back of the boat. "I'm not a medi-wizard. I don't know the right one."

"We shall soon stop for the night, friend Neville," advised Legolas. "Once we have made camp, either Aragorn or the Lady Molly may know how to ease your discomfort."

A blanket was thrown over his shivering form and he managed a nod of thanks in Gimli's direction before falling into a restless dose. He didn't awake until some time later, when a hobbit's cry pierced his slumber and he cracked open his eyes to see a flock of swans flying overhead. The sight had sent Pippin into an excited frenzy and he was pointing at them in glee.

At least he and his cousin had stopped swaying about in the ruddy boat!

Unfortunately, the thought of their earlier spot of riverdancing stuck in his mind, making his mouth water again.

_Oh, no._

This time, his fancy took a trip across the Scottish border and he heaved for the Highlands as the boat passed the lands of Rohan on the western bank.

Wiping his mouth with a trembling hand, he sank back into the boat and fervently hoped that Northern Ireland would be good enough to spare him. How was it possible to throw up so much? He didn't think there was any fluid left in him!

It was with great relief that he disembarked on the western shore half an hour later (with Gimli and Legolas grabbing an arm each and hauling his slack form off the boat onto terra firma).

"Neville, dear! Gracious, you look dreadful!" Molly cried, rushing over to him and brushing his plastered hair off his face.

"I get that a lot," he mumbled, too tired to protest when Legolas threw him over his shoulder and carried him further inland. The elf laid him carefully on the ground as Molly hastily opened her knapsack and pulled Cirdan's lovely blankets out to wrap him up in.

"There you go, dear. Sam's getting a nice fire started, so you'll soon be warm and dry."

"'S'nice," he said and closed his eyes again. He didn't wake up for the rest of the night.

**XXX**

The next morning dawned dull and grey, and Neville woke up with a pounding headache. Aragorn spotted his return to consciousness and left the smouldering remnants of the fire to join him.

"Are you feeling better, young Neville?" he asked, his kind grey eyes assessing him as he laid a calloused hand on the teenager's forehead.

"Well, I'm not feeling sick anymore, so that's an improvement," he replied. He didn't want to mention the headache, already mortified at creating such a fuss over his own health when he was supposed to be looking out for everyone else's.

"I am glad to hear it. However, the paleness of your face and the manner in which you narrow your eyes would lead me to believe that you now suffer an ache of the head; is that not so?"

Surprised by the man's astuteness, he confirmed that he did indeed have a headache.

Aragorn smiled gently and reached over to an adjacent rocky ledge. "The Lady Molly has advised that you drink plenty of fluids to replenish your lost stores - wisdom which I wholeheartedly agree with."

The Ranger produced what could only be one of Molly's flowery cups and helped him sit up so that he could drink from it. The cool, clear water flowed down his throat and after a few minutes, he soon began to feel much more like his old self.

"Thanks, Aragorn. That's helped to clear the cobwebs away a bit. Where is Molly, by the way?" he asked curiously, for the matronly witch was nowhere near the camp.

"The Hobbits wished to stretch their legs before we set off again, and I thought it a good idea for her to accompany them."

Neville was impressed. Trying to convince the concerned mother to leave her sickly charge would have been a mammoth task. "How did you manage to talk her into that?" he asked, grinning.

"I reminded her that I am a healer also, and more than able to tend to a sea-sickened seventeen year old. And I may have suggested that Frodo would feel safer with the benefit of a powerful Witch to guard him during his walk."

"So you appealed to her common sense, her protective streak _and_ her vanity, eh? Good one!"

Aragorn laughed. "Come, young Wizard. Let us see if we cannot entice your stomach into a light meal before we resume our travels. A little lembas to start with, and perhaps a little more water. We do not want to line it with anything heavier at present until you have accustomed yourself more to the demands of the river."

"I'm really sorry about making such an idiot of myself," said Neville guiltily. "You must think I'm a right disappointment as a protector when I can't even control my ruddy stomach."

"Do not be so harsh on yourself, Neville. Even the doughtiest of warriors is susceptible to the small protests his body can make of him. You cannot change the fact that, Wizard that you are, you are still very much a mortal Man, and as such are rendered as fallible to the workings of your internal organs as I or any other person is."

He smiled weakly, touched by the Ranger's generosity.

"And, if I recall correctly, even the immortal Gandalf was prone to a slight cough or two, in his time, although that may have had more to do with his fondness for a pipeful of Old Toby than any real ailment of his lungs."

"Gandalf smoked?"

"Oh, yes," said Aragorn, handing him a corner of lembas, which he chewed warily. The ranger took a seat beside him and leaned against the ledge. "Gandalf discovered the joys of the leaf when he first visited the Shire, many years ago. Old Toby is one of the more popular leaves from the Hobbits' homeland. In fact, the morning after your arrival, when I told the Hobbits your full name, they were extremely...keen...to meet you."

Yeah, well, he sort of worked that out after Pippin's excited voice had woken him up that morning. But what did his name have to do with leaf? He was Neville, not Toby.

"Why's that then?"

"Because the other popular pipe filler is _Longbottom_ Leaf," answered the ranger in amusement. "So you can imagine their excitement at finding a Wizard named for their esteemed crop. They believe you must have some Hobbit blood in you and were very taken with the idea of bringing you back to their home to introduce to the local farmers. Indeed, in your honour, they have renamed the beloved pipe-filler Neville Longbottom Leaf."

Neville choked on his lembas.

"I thought you might like that," laughed Aragorn as he thumped the teenager on the back to help him clear his throat.

"Blimey! That's, er, very nice of them," gasped Neville.

He wondered how Gran would like that. After his impressive turn at the Battle of Hogwart's, she'd been hoping the Ministry named a hospital wing after him or something equally daft, and spent hours envisioning the statue that would be built before it in his honour, perhaps showing him posing proudly with the Sword of Gryffindor in one hand and the head of Nagini in the other (he'd been mortified and had threatened to blast it to pieces if anyone even dared so much as try it). But to have tobacco named after him instead?

Oh, well.

"Funny though that they haven't mentioned anything about it." He saw Aragorn's quizzical expression and elaborated. "I mean, Merry and Pippin, at least, are not exactly backward about being...forward, if you understand me."

"If you understand me?" The ranger chuckled. "You reminded me a little of Sam when you said that, young Wizard. But yes, you are quite correct: Merry and Pippin are often very gregarious, which is why I warned them not to trouble you with pleas to visit the Shire until after we complete our task. You should have peace from that particular request for a while yet, I deem."

Thank goodness for that! He really enjoyed the duo's company and their ability to elicit a laugh from the Fellowship despite the dire mission they were on, but Molly was better at dealing with their persistent badgering than he was and he wasn't sure if he'd be able to fend them off if they ganged up on him (at least, not without using his wand on them).

His gaze flickered over the remainder of the little camp and he noted that all the travellers' supplies had been packed in readiness for a speedy departure. But he and Aragorn were the only two left sitting by the smouldering fire.

"Where is everyone else?" he asked.

"Legolas and Gimli are exploring the greener lands on this side of the river, for we have seen little of that colour since we left Lothlórien. As for Boromir, I know not. Perhaps he wanders a distance behind them, alone with his thoughts. He will return in time for our departure, of this I am certain."

The man's face looked somewhat tense as he spoke and Neville couldn't help feeling a little awkward.

"Boromir doesn't seem like the life of the party does he?" offered the teenager with a sympathetic smile. "But he's got a lot on his mind and probably doesn't have much to smile about these days."

"Which only makes his peculiar behaviour in Lothlórien all the more inexplicable," replied the ranger, frowning. "I had not thought he felt at ease in the Lady's lands, but he shattered those suspicions a few nights before we left."

Ah, Molly's Cheering charm. Should he tell him?

Then he remembered that the witch had used the same spell on _him_ too and thought that, in this case, discretion may be the better part of valour.

"That happens to a lot of people after a few helpings of Molly's cooking," he said evasively. "Wouldn't worry about it."

"Perhaps you are right. After several weeks of waybread and what ever limited game a ranger can find on his travels, a hearty meal in a safe haven is often enough to improve one's mood. Yet, I wish that his good humour had accompanied him down the Anduin..."

"Well, he's on his way home now, isn't he? And from what I understand, Minas Tirith has more than its share of trouble at the moment, what with the threat of Sauron," offered Neville. "If his dad sent him all the way to Rivendell in the hope of getting help and he comes back empty-handed -"

Aragorn's frown deepened. "The Steward of Gondor is a proud Man who believes that only the might of arms may quell his foes. He will not pay tribute to the thought that we attempt to subvert the Dark Lord's threat with what he would no doubt perceive as an illicit gamble. Nay, he would demand that we use that which we carry against its Master! But such a thing is impossible. The weapon will never betray its creator, for much of his will is within it. Were it to fall into the hands of Denethor, or any of his ilk, then the fate of the West would be sealed."

One of the smouldering logs popped, then sizzled, sending a plume of black smoke into Neville's face. He waved his hand before his nose to ward off the worst of it.

"Sounds like Boromir's in for a right old grilling when he gets back home, then. No wonder his face is like a wet Wednesday. Still, his dad doesn't know about the ... _thing_ ... does he?"

"Not yet. But that will change when his son arrives home. He is bound by duty to tell the Steward of his journey and all that occurred during it. Denethor will condemn our actions as folly and lament the loss of the weapon. He would not condone our journey into Mordor with it, lest we were to take the forces of Gondor's armies with us. But such action would only draw the attention of the Eye, and that would be fatal to the quest. We would not last two minutes in the Black Lands without Sauron's forces attacking us and recovering his prize - and that would bring doom to the West."

"Maybe Boromir will talk some sense into him, though: make him see that, strategically, it's better to try and destroy both it and its master, than keep it so close to Mordor that Sauron's bound to find it without much more effort."

A wry laugh. "Nay, Neville. Boromir has too much of his sire in him. He shares his belief in the power of force and, even as we speak, wanders the hills lost in thoughts of how to encourage our Fellowship to take the road to his City, no doubt."

No doubt. The teenager recalled the Gondorian's desperation when they argued in the archery field. The Ring must seem like a gift to him after all the years his country had spent fighting a losing battle against Mordor. Still, he firmly believed that Boromir was a noble man and would do what was right in the end. The love in his eyes as he spoke of his family and people, and the brief moment of humour they had shared at the thought of a grandmother's fury, was all the proof he needed of this.

A twig snapped off to the right of the pair and he turned his head to see the man himself watching them. Boromir's face was stony, but his eyes flashed.

Uh oh. Had he heard them?

"Hello Boromir," he offered with a squeak in his voice. Aragorn rose, nodded at the man and walked to the travelling packs to begin transporting them back into the boats. "Did you have a nice walk?"

"I see you are well again," Boromir replied gruffly, ignoring the question. "Good. We have no time to delay in nursing a poorly youth. If you possess arts to rid yourself of any further water-sickness, I suggest you employ them, for we cannot afford to waste time tending to your delicate stomach when the fate of the West hangs in the balance."

He walked passed the blushing teenager and grabbed his own pack before heading to the boat he shared with Merry and Pippin.

Well, that was just great. Obviously, the moody Gondorian _had _heard and chose to take his bad mood out on the nearest target. Burning with embarrassment, Neville picked himself off the ground and was just brushing himself off when the rest of the company returned. The younger hobbits were delighted to see him up and about and their enthusiasm to greet him carried them over even faster than his relieved Guardian.

"So, you're feeling better now, are you?" asked Merry brightly. "That's good."

Pippin was beaming up at him. "I've never seen _anyone_ being so sick before! Is this your first time on a boat?"

"Er, no. When I first started school, all the First Years had to take one to get across the Lake..."

"Were you sick then too?"

"Well, no. But I didn't have to -"

"So why were you so sick now? Do you not like the water?"

"It's very nice in a glass."

Pippin laughed. "That's funny! You sound like Sam. He doesn't like water much either unless he's drinking it or pouring on his flowerbeds. But even he hasn't ever been as sick you were yesterday! Do you think that'll happen to you again today?"

The curly-haired youth was watching him in fascination, debating whether or not the teenager still had enough fluid left in him to provide as much entertainment as he had the day before. Neville was too startled to answer, but Merry intervened, thumping his cousin and dragging him off to their boat as Molly approached with her hand rifling through her knapsack.

"There you are dear! Thank goodness you're looking a bit more like your old self. I want you to drink this before we go."

She pulled out a vial of blue fluid and offered it to him. "It's Philip Frenetic's Anti-Emetic potion and it'll help keep the worst of your nausea at bay. Go on now, dear. Drink up!"

Smiling his thanks, Neville unstoppered it and swallowed it down in one, trying not to gag as the bitter liquid hit his much-abused stomach.

"Thanks," he choked out as she took the vial back off him and put it back in the first-aid kit.

"You don't happen to have any more of them, do you, Mistress Molly?" asked Sam hopefully as he and Frodo stopped beside her. Frodo was trying not to grin.

"Of course, dear! Why, I should have thought to ask if anyone else might be in need of them. There you go!"

The little gardener took the eagerly proffered vial and swallowed the contents (doing a much better job of hiding his revulsion than the wizard).

"Thank you very much, Mistress Molly. I feel much better already," Sam said, looking thrilled to have drank a wizard's potion. "I'll bet I could swim the whole way to Mordor now and not think twice about it!"

Now Frodo did grin. "I don't think you'll have to worry about swimming anywhere once we leave the Anduin, Sam. I don't believe there are any rivers between this one and Mount Doom."

His face fell slightly as he mentioned the Ring's birthplace and Sam, catching sight of it, tried to cheer him up. "That's a good thing, then, Mr Frodo. We'll be able to move much more steadily on foot without you worrying that your Sam's going to be as sick as a Wizard every five minutes."

As sick as a _wizard_? Excellent ...

"Come on now, sir. Let's get back to the boat. We mustn't keep old Strider waiting any longer."

Taking the Ring-bearer's arm, the stout hobbit gently guided his friend towards the riverbank.

"Poor dears," said Molly. "It must be terribly difficult for them, knowing what lies ahead."

Neville nodded his head in agreement as he watched their forlorn figures heading for the boat. "I know. That's why I'm going to make sure that their road is as clear and safe as possible."

She handed him his cloak and pinned the Lórien brooch to it after he threw it over his shoulders. "You're a good boy, Neville Longbottom. Your mother and father will be very proud of you - just like I am."

Her brown eyes were sparkling up at him suspiciously and he fervently hoped she wasn't going to burst into tears or something (Gimli would kill him if he saw).

"Thanks Molly. I can't tell you what that means to me."

"Neville! Lady Molly! Come - we must tarry here no longer. The eyes of the Enemy are everywhere and we must move swiftly to avoid their gaze."

Aragorn was beckoning at them to join the rest of the Company in the boats, so shouldering their knapsacks, they turned towards the bank and split up to take their seats on the elven vessels. Less than a minute later the boats were carrying them south down the Anduin towards their destiny ...

**XXX**

The land on either side of the river was becoming progressively rockier as the current carried them ever closer to the Falls of Rauros. Cold winds swept over them, chilling the company through the long, bleak days and making them yearn for the warm fire that waited for them during the evening's rest. Neville hadn't seen or heard any further sign of Gollum following them, although he didn't doubt the erstwhile Ring-bearer was lurking somewhere behind them, biding his time until he could make some sort of attempt to regain his treasure.

Flocks of birds had been flying in the air above them for most of the day and as they made their camp later, Aragorn cast a doubtful eye on them. "It may be that word of our travels is spreading amidst the wildlife of the Emyn Muil; the result of some mischief on the part of our elusive friend, no doubt. It is best that we take what rest we may during the remaining light, and travel only in darkness while the birds sleep: that we may better evade their prying eyes."

But as they were beginning to break camp that evening, Aragorn drew their attention to a massive bird wheeling in circles farther south. It seemed to be searching for something.

"Is it looking for us?" Neville asked, frowning.

"I cannot say for certain, yet what else would draw its curious gaze so far south in Winter? It may be an agent of the Enemy or another foul creature of Saruman's, sent to spy for a sign of our location. We must not allow it to see us."

"Do you want me to take care of it?" the teenager offered, gripping his wand in readiness.

"Nay," said Legolas beside him as they crouched behind a rock. "That may draw further attention from other prying eyes. It would be wiser to allow it to fly off unharmed."

Acknowledging the point, Neville slipped his wand back into the holster Galadriel had gifted him, which he had since secured to his right hip.

Aragorn continued to watch the bird as it circled, dipped and soared, before moving further south. "We will not start until it is fully dark," he said firmly and with that, all three made their way back to the others to tell them what they had seen.

**XXX**

On the eighth day after they left Lothlórien, the ranger suggested that they should make one more journey by dark. Fortunately, the sky was clear enough in the west and the starlight bright enough to aid their vision down the river, and Neville was happy enough to follow this plan. His stomach hadn't given him any more trouble since he'd drank Molly's potion and he'd been able to accustom himself to the river's flow.

But he'd discovered that something else was beginning to take the place of his former discomfort.

The Ring.

It had started pushing against his mind the day before and he'd dismissed it as no more than idle thought as he lay resting his eyes by the camp. But the insidious voice of the Ring persisted; tugging at his consciousness insistently, trying to seduce him with its siren call. He wondered how Frodo managed to ignore the ruddy thing's endless whining. Did anyone else hear it too?

Well, obviously Boromir did. The Gondorian still threw longing glances at the hobbit's neckline when he thought no one was looking, but no one else seemed to hear it - or if they did, they were doing a great job of pretending they didn't.

Still, at least the Valar had given him a better idea of what it was capable of. There was no danger of him trying anything stupid when he knew the Ring would only use his abilities to get it back to its master as quickly as possible.

Once night fell, the boats slipped back onto the Anduin. They drifted for many hours upon its surface, when suddenly Sam, who was acting as lookout in the lead vessel cried out. Neville craned his head around Gimli's bulky form and saw dark shapes ahead.

"What are they?"

"Rocks," replied Legolas. "We are nearing the rapids of Sarn Gebir."

The swirl of racing water confirmed the elf's words and as the boats were swept aside towards the eastern bank, they could see the row of rocks gleaming in the starlight like a row of sharp teeth.

Boromir was busy voicing his disapproval at attempting to pass them, and for once, Aragorn agreed. He shouted out to the others to turn the boats around as quickly as possible and all hands were soon busied trying to fight against the swift moving currents before it drove them onto the shoals.

"It's no good!" yelled Merry. The current's too strong!"

"Row harder!" shouted Boromir as the little boat bobbed dangerously against the waves.

"I can't!"

Neville watched in horror as their boat drifted further and further towards the rocks.

"Molly!" he cried. "Do something!"

But the witch was too quick for him and already he saw the flash of colour as her wand worked its magic. Before the disbelieving eyes of the company, the boat rose slowly in the air and floated away from the rocks.

"I'm flying!" yelled Pippin in delight as the grey vessel floated towards the other two boats which were making better headway up the river.

No sooner had the astonished hobbit voiced his pleasure, than a twang was heard from the banks.

"We are under attack!" called Aragorn. "Get the boat back in the water lest the arrows find their marks!"

Molly lowered the boat and conjured a powerful Shield charm to protect them from the worst of the black projectiles, allowing Neville to scan the banks for their adversaries. The limited light available was making this more difficult, but he was still able to spot some dark shapes moving over the rocks.

Which pleased him greatly.

"_Oppugno_!" he cried, as the next wave of arrows flew towards them. The missiles stopped in mid-air, turned, and headed back the way they had come. Shouts of confusion and muffled screams were heard as they hit the archers. His Guardian caught on to the clever idea as another wave headed their way and soon the night air was filled with hidden screams of pain and fury as the other members of the Fellowship steered the boats back into the middle of the stream and away from the rapids.

"Make for the western shore!" called Aragorn.

The teenager let Legolas and Gimli do the paddling as he kept his wand trained for any further attack. No more arrows were forthcoming, but the shrill, infuriated cries of orcs could be heard ringing through the darkness. No doubt they were a little confused at their weapons inexplicable behaviour.

He grinned.

The boats reached solid ground and they disembarked, hurriedly pulling them farther inland out of unfriendly reach. Legolas sprang up the shore and lifted his eyes skyward. Wondering what he was looking at, Neville followed him, but his sight wasn't as keen as the elf's and he couldn't discern what had caught his attention. He really hoped his friend hadn't decided to choose this moment for a little of that much-beloved elvish stargazing.

"Legolas, what're you looking at?" the young wizard asked urgently.

"_Elbereth Gilthoniel_!" he cried aloud and Neville rolled his eyes. Really, this was no time to be thinking about girls!

Suddenly, the teenager was aware of a change in the air. A chill gripped his body as Legolas made a grab for his Galadhrim bow and his eyes were drawn to the rolling dark clouds moving towards them from the south. But something wasn't quite right...

The chill increased and he heard Frodo gasp in pain. Alarmed, he looked towards the Ring-bearer, but the hobbit was not under attack, merely crouched in fear as the others bundled him behind the reeds. A harsh cry from above pulled his vision skywards again and he saw...

What the bloody hell was _that_?

A huge creature with an enormous wingspan was speeding towards the company, with something - or someone - straddling its back. Every metre it closed in on them increased the dreadful chill that coursed through Neville's body and he knew the others must be feeling the same way. Loud, harsh cries of greeting called out to it from the eastern shore and he realised it must be an ally of the orcs. His skin was crawling with cold and tingles of fear as it brought its cloying darkness their way. It felt almost like a Dementor. The realisation made him point his wand at it, but before he could utter a word ...

"_Expecto Patronum_!"

A burst of light erupted from Molly's wand and the silvery figure of a huge lioness sprinted through the dark night towards the dreadful creature. It to let forth a ghastly screech of terror and swerved violently to the right in an effort to escape, only to meet the swift arrow of the Prince of Mirkwood. Ten pairs of eyes watched as it fell several leagues away, down onto the western shores.

"Nice shot - both of you!" said Neville, very impressed.

"'Twould have been a better shot if the creature had landed on the _other_ side of the river," said Boromir darkly.

Molly glared at him. "You're welcome!" she snapped and, gathering Frodo and the other hobbits, followed Aragorn further inland where they could better conceal themselves from the screaming orcs.

They remained on the western shore for a while longer as the orcs across the water cursed and wailed at them, before, finally, silence fell.

After a while, Aragorn led the boats back upstream and they crept their way along the water's edge for some distance until they found a small, shallow bay. They moored the boats close together and huddled inside.

"It is better that we await the dawn here," declared the ranger. "Sauron's Orcs will not dare follow us while the light of day blesses the lands, for it is painful to their eyes. We shall travel no further by nightfall."

"What was that thing, anyway?" asked Neville, curious about the quasi-Dementor.

"It may have been a Nazgûl," replied Legolas. "One of the Nine Kings of Men who are enslaved by the Dark Lord to do his bidding. They are drawn to his weapon and seek to return it to their master. If it had seen us creeping through the night this close to the eastern shore of their Master's lands, it may have been calamitous for the quest."

So _that_ was a Nazgûl? Neville remembered the Valar's description of them, but the Black Rider had been too far away for him to get a really good look at it (thank goodness). He really wished Manwë had said something about their Dementor-like ability to make someone fill their trousers ...

"Good thing you're so handy with that bow then, eh?" the teenager said thankfully.

"Praised be the bow of Galadriel, and the hand and eye of Legolas!" declared Gimli, shoving a corner of lembas into his mouth. "That was a mighty shot in the dark, my friend!"

The elf bowed his head in thanks at the praise.

"And praised be also to the glowing spirit-creature which Lady Molly sent forth to ward it off."

Boromir was regarding the matronly witch with a touch of humility as he offered this thanks. "I beg your pardon for my earlier remark, my Lady. We are all in your debt, too."

She blushed then beamed at him. "Oh, think nothing of it, dear. Even the best of us can get a little short-tempered in a moment of peril."

Nodding his gratitude, he assessed her curiously. "What was that strange creature which you conjured?"

"That was my Patronus. Where I come from, we have many creatures similar to your Nazgûl, called Dementors, and a good Patronus is the only way to protect yourself against them before they can kiss you."

Gimli sprayed his half-chewed lembas over an unfortunate Legolas. "Kiss? What manner of dark creature is it that runs about kissing its enemies?"

A wide grin spread across Neville's face as the company began to discuss the dark side of snogging in hushed tones.

"What she means is that Dementors suck your soul out through your mouth and swallow it."

A gasp of horror from Pippin made his grin stretch wider.

"I don't think I like the sound of that!" said the tweenager, completely disgusted.

"Me neither," said Sam, blanching. "I might even rather take my chances with one of them Nazgûl. Leastways, I won't have to worry none about them trying to get too familiar with me, if you take my meaning."

The company shared an uneasy laugh at the thought of Sam unwillingly locked in a passionate embrace with an ardent Nazgûl.

"I'd much rather avoid both of them altogether," whispered Frodo softly, and the laughter died down when they saw him rubbing his shoulder.

Neville frowned in concern. "Is it still sore?"

"No, just an echo of an earlier hurt. But the appearance of the Black Rider made it flare up again for a moment, as if it senses when they are near."

This sobering thought extinguished the Fellowship's dark humour.

"Regardless of Nazgûl or other strange creatures, whatever it was it is gone for the moment. But we must make our way forward now with caution, for if it was one of the Nine, it will not have perished with its steed. We must stay alert for signs of it as long as we remain within reach of the Anduin. It may labour to rejoin its allies on the eastern shore, or return to its master - or it may linger in wait for our company. Have your weapons close to hand and be ever on your guard, my friends."

Aragorn's sombre words rang in their ears as the group slept with their swords by their sides. Neville and Legolas were the appointed lookouts for the night, but the thought of a Nazgûl patrolling the western shore was enough to keep even the sleepiest of the company awake for several hours.

**XXX**

Neville was pulled from sleep the following morning by the sound of raised voices. Boromir had taken his place through the night as lookout and it was his petulant tone as he spoke with Aragorn that disturbed his fitful rest. Yawning, the teenager propped himself up and gazed at Gimli in curiosity.

"What's all that about?" he asked, indicating the huffy Gondorian and the glowering ranger.

"They discuss which path is best for us to follow to smoother waters and where we go after we come to them. Boromir would that we made for his land before we pass the Rapids, but Aragorn is more taken with the idea of travelling past them to Amon Hen, that he may take the high seat of his ancestors before making his final decision."

The high seat of his ancestors? Neville could fully appreciate the need for a decent seat (his own backside was killing him from hours of sitting in the cramped boat) but really, how would a comfy chair help him make up his mind?

"Eh, right. Okay."

In the end, it was decided that Aragorn and Legolas would travel ahead to find a path across the shore by which they could carry the boats. Frodo's face was a picture of dejection as they slipped up the steep bank and were swallowed by the swirling fog and Neville felt sorry for him.

"Don't worry. They'll be back as soon as they can."

The Ring-bearer gave a half-hearted smile. "I know. I just don't like to see the Fellowship sundered, even for a day and for such a necessary task."

But the hobbit's smile returned when they reappeared a few hours later.

"We have found the track, and it leads to a good landing that is yet serviceable. All that remains is to carry the boats and our provisions through it. Make haste."

A chorus of unhappy groans from the hobbits made the young wizard smile.

"Why don't you just carry your packs, while Molly and I see to the boats?" he said cheerfully.

"Are you going to make them float, like Lady Molly did when we almost hit the rocks?" queried Pippin hopefully.

"Indeed we are," confirmed Molly briskly. "And no, you may not sit inside them while we do so! Pick up your supplies, young man, and follow the others. We'll be right behind you."

Merry grinned at his younger cousin's glum expression and threw an arm around his shoulder. "Come on Pip. Let's go and annoy Boromir for a while, see if we can't cheer him up a little."

And off they trudged, leaving the wizard and witch to cast a quick _Locomotor Naviculae_ on the three elven vessels and steer them through the air after the group.

Gimli was shaking his head in wonder.

"A floating boat!" he mumbled as he gave the vessels a wide berth. "Whatever next? A Dwarf on a horse?"

Legolas laughed at him. "You should not discount the possibility, my friend. It may be that we have need of such transport before the quest is over."

"I tell you now, Master Legolas, that sooner would I extol the virtues of the trees which you so admire, than place my Dwarven rump on the back of such creatures!"

Now everyone laughed.

The ten walkers made slow progress up the bank, across the waste of grey limestone boulders, through dells and past boggy pools. Even with Neville and Molly's magic sparing them the burden of carrying the boats, everyone still had to step cautiously due to the foggy veils hanging over the crumbling rocks. Neville could hear the rapids rushing and swirling off to his left and was grateful that Aragorn had found an alternate path to spare them the trial of negating them.

Some time later, the teenager could feel the ground sloping gently downwards and the Fellowship arrived at the shallow edge of a little pool. Beyond them, the shore rose sheer into a steep cliff and they could make no further progress by foot.

"We shall rest here tonight, for dusk draws near and we must gather our strength if we are to remain alert enough to slip past our friends on the eastern shore tomorrow."

Great! Neville was knackered. It had taken a lot of concentration to keep the boats floating beside them during the trek, even with Molly's help. The two visitors lowered the vessels onto the shore, but just as he was about to take a seat and catch his breath, Aragorn informed him that he'd be taking the first watch with Boromir.

"Off you go dear," said Molly. "I'll make us all a little something to eat and bring you both over a plate while you keep watch."

So the teenager trudged tiredly to the prominent ledge which jutted out from the shore and took a seat next to the Fellowship's happiest member, hoping to draw the moody man into conversation so that he wouldn't fall asleep at his post.

"I'm knackered," he announced.

Boromir gazed at him in slight confusion.

"Tired. I mean I'm tired," corrected the teenager.

"Ah. I see. 'Knackered'. Such a peculiar word. Do all speak as you do in your lands?"

Thinking of his very articulate grandmother, he shook his head. "No. It's just the way teenagers speak to each other."

"Indeed? I have not seen my teen-aged years for over two decades, but even then, my father would not have been pleased if I used anything other than proper diction to express myself."

Hmm. Denethor had something in common with Augusta Longbottom, then.

"I know exactly what you mean. My Gran's a bit like that. She always says _'The Queen's English is your gift and your duty. Do not abuse the privilege of its beauty'_. She's a bit of a stickler for decorum, is my Gran."

A slight grin graced the man's face. "And quite the poetess."

Oh. That never occurred to him before, but Boromir was right: it _did_ rhyme.

Silence fell and Boromir busied himself by scanning the shores of the eastern banks for tell-tale signs of the enemy. Several minutes passed without any further communication from him and Neville gave up hope of trying to draw him further into conversation. He fingered his wand idly as he studied the nooks and crannies on both sides of the river for any hidden spies.

Suddenly his companion broke the silence with an unexpected request.

"Tell me of your grandmother, young Wizard. I find that every mention you make of her brings a smile to my face, however fleeting, and I would know more of her - if you are willing to share your memories. It would do much to lift the darkness of this day."

Wow! That was a surprise. Boromir initiating a conversation? Thrilled at the progress, Neville began to speak about the phenomena that was Augusta Longbottom.

"Well, Gran's a bit scary, if you don't know her too well - well, even if you do, actually. She's got set opinions and tastes, a mind of steel and an endless supply of clever spells that can unhinge even the most determined opponents."

"She is a powerful Witch?"

Thinking of poor Dawlish (who was likely to spend the rest of his natural life in St Mungo's), the teenager smiled.

"Oh yeah! If you saw her, you'd think she was nothing more than a harmless little old lady - with _really_ strange taste in hats - but, if someone is stupid enough to cross her..."

Neville remembered the time when she'd taken him to Diagon Alley to collect his supplies for his first year at Hogwarts. They'd run into Goyle senior, who'd laughed when he spotted Neville being measured for his robes in Madam Malkin's…

"_What's this then? The last of the Longbottoms getting measured for robes? I didn't know Hogwarts admitted Squibs into their halls!"_

_Eleven year old Neville flushed with embarrassment, but Gran was not so easily intimidated._

"_A rather foolish supposition on your part, don't you think? After all, they admitted you," she snapped. "And, unlike you, my grandson is not a Squib. If, however, you are keen to laugh at those less __**gifted**__ than yourself, you need look no further than your own unfortunate child."_

_She pointed disdainfully at the wiry-haired boy glaring hatefully at her._

"_It appears that he has inherited his father's primate appearance, so no doubt he will be as equally untalented with his magic. A waste of a good wand, if you ask me."_

_The elder Goyle turned crimson at the slur on both his offspring and himself._

"_Don't you dare talk about my son in that way, you miserable old hag! He got into Hogwarts 'cos he's a gifted Pureblood wizard! Not 'cos his old Muggle-loving, blood-traitor granny slept with the Headmaster!"_

_Little Neville's eyes widened in shock. Oh dear. Mr Goyle shouldn't have said that ..._

_Augusta was outraged by the man's gall. "How dare you say such a thing, you miserable little man! How dare you impugn the characters of Albus Dumbledore and myself in such a graceless fashion! And in front of children, too! Have you no decency? No respect?"_

_Her eyes narrowed as she stormed towards the ape-like wizard and Madam Malkin paused in her measurements of Gregory to shake her head in despair._

"_Perhaps you need a lesson in manners?"_

_Goyle grinned and twirled his wand carelessly. "And who's going to teach me, then? You? From what I've heard, you can't even teach your own son how to sleep without slobbering down his face. How is Frankie-boy these days? Can he eat his solids now - or do you still have to feed him through a straw?"_

_Gregory laughed at his father's wit as Neville clenched his fists in anger. But no one was angrier than Augusta ..._

_Before the much larger Goyle could stop twirling his wand long enough to take the threat she presented seriously, Gran barked a spell the eleven year old had never heard before and waved her wand at the man's throat._

_Nothing happened._

"_Now what do you have to say for yourself?" she asked, supremely confident with her work._

_Neville didn't know why she sounded so happy: Goyle was almost doubled over with laughter because nothing had happened._

_Or had it?_

_The guffawing man finally took control of himself and sneered at her, before opening his mouth and saying:_

"_I love Muggles."_

_Little Neville shook his head in confusion. That's funny, he thought Mr Goyle said ..._

"_I love Muggles?"_

_The startled man's eyes boggled in dismay as he stared at the little old woman in disbelief._

_Gregory gasped in shock and rushed from the stand, pushing his way past a very anxious Madam Malkin._

"_Dad! What're you saying?"_

_Goyle looked horrified. His face clouded with anger as he tried to bark his outrage at a very satisfied Augusta._

"_I LOVE MUGGLES!"_

_The formidable matriarch smiled politely. "Yes, I know. I love them too. Wonderful, isn't it?"_

"_What've you done to my Dad?" screamed the furious Gregory as his father clutched at his throat like a strangled cat._

_She regarded the mini-Goyle with arched brows. "Why, the only proper thing one can do with an ill-mannered, uncouth Death Eater: I've given him a taste of his own medicine. If I were you boy, I'd see to it that he gets home as quickly as possible, before he bumps into Lucius Malfoy and makes a complete fool of himself."_

_Spotting a piece of lint on her blue jacket, she brushed it off daintily while the astonished boy grabbed his father's hand and pulled him towards the door._

"_Mr Goyle! Gregory hasn't been fully measured yet," exclaimed Madam Malkin as he yanked open the door to the shop. The man spared her a glance and tried to tell her to finish the job another time, but all could say was:_

"_I love Muggles!"_

_And with that, the very distressed pair left the shop as fast as their legs would carry them._

Neville finished the tale and was pleased to see Boromir's shoulders shaking with mirth.

"'Tis a pity you have not brought the lady with you!" he said through his laughter. "I believe she would be a formidable ally in our fight against the Dark Lord's forces."

"Yeah, well, Goyle certainly never made the mistake of crossing her again. She told me later that that charm she used was one of her own inventions and would've lasted several weeks. There was no way to lift it, so Goyle would've had no choice but to let it run its course. No wonder his son never liked me much at school."

"And he, no doubt, followed his father's dark path?"

The teenager nodded in confirmation. "He joined Voldemort's ranks when he turned seventeen and believed all the rubbish he spouted about trying to make the world a better place. As far as I know, he's sharing a cell with his dad in Azkaban, the Wizarding prison."

"Foolish child," said Boromir, shaking his head. "The words of tyrants can never be trusted, and only a simpleton would pay them any heed. They are so easily seduced by empty promises that they blindly follow orders in the hope of prevailing over their enemies. They do not realise that they are enslaving themselves to their master's will as surely as they enslave others. Such is the way of evil."

"Do you really believe that?" Neville asked, thinking the man was trying to make a point.

Boromir regarded him with steady grey eyes, a sad look on his face. "I am many things, young Wizard. But I am not a simpleton. Nor am I deaf. I heard the words Aragorn shared with you. He thinks me weak."

Bloody hell! This wasn't exactly the conversation he wanted to have.

"No he doesn't! That's rubbish!"

"Is it? He believes me incapable of stealth or cunning; that I would storm the Dark Lord's lands like a mindless brute, secure with the might of my father's armies at my side, yet all the while endangering the quest with my folly."

The young wizard groaned. How could he argue with that?

"That's not exactly what he meant -"

"Nay. Perhaps not. Perhaps he meant only to say that I am not to be trusted near the Dark Lord's weapon. That I, being my sire's child, am too concerned with the force of arms as an answer to all evils and cannot comprehend the subtleties of subversion, nor withstand the lure of the weapon's seduction. I am a Man of action - I do not deny it. I speak as I find and do as I must. But I am not a fool. And I am not a thief!"

A thief? Who said anything about ..?

Boromir's gaze burned intently as it held his own. "I see the question in your eyes when you look at me, young Wizard. I feel your gaze upon me when I so much as glance at the Ring-bearer. I know your thoughts!"

The man's voice rose accusingly, drawing curious glances from the others (and a very suspicious frown from Molly).

"Be quiet, for heaven's sake!" hissed Neville. "Do you want to bring them all over here?"

Aragorn was beginning to rise from the camp, but sat down again when the Gondorian mustered a sheepish wave and an apologetic smile. Boromir returned his gaze to the eastern shore.

"For your information, it never crossed my mind that you'd try to steal the ruddy thing!" the very annoyed teenager said. "But I know that its been messing with your head. I'm just worried about you. I am allowed to be worried for a friend, aren't I?"

"Friend, you say? Are you being friendly when you whisper with others behind my back? Are you being friendly when your gaze assesses the risk I may pose to Frodo?"

"Don't be so bloody stupid! I never said a ruddy word against you and Aragorn just doesn't think it's a good idea to take the...thing...into Gondor. He knows that its effect on humans is more powerful than on other races, or aren't you aware that the ruddy Nazgûl are the Nine Kings of _Men_? If its got such a hold over the minds of nine once-proud leaders, what do you think it'll do to one war-weary Steward?"

"My father is a powerful Man with the gift of foresight! He has learned much since the battle for our borders began - enough to withstand the might of Sauron for many years," spat Boromir. "His is a will of iron, that is not so easily swayed by a mere trinket."

Neville rolled his eyes. "That mere trinket you speak of would've helped Sauron conquer the West over three thousand years ago if Isildur hadn't cut it from his hand - and even then, the stupid git didn't chuck it into the fire like he should have. Oh no. He knew better than even the wisest elves in Middle Earth, didn't he? He thought he could master it, control it, bend it to his will, didn't he? And how did that turn out, exactly? Oh yes, that's right - it slipped off his finger _of its own accord _and left him exposed to a group of orcs...orcs that riddled him with arrows and left his dead body floating in a river like a whipped dog!"

A heavy silence followed these words, but Neville couldn't regret them.

"How do you know it has been...what did you say?...'messing with my head'?"

The question came out of the blue, so Neville thought the answer should too.

"Because it's been messing with mine too."

Boromir turned sharply, his eyebrows raised in shock. "What?"

He shrugged. "What did you expect? I may be a wizard, but I'm still only human. And just the kind of person the ruddy thing's fond of."

"I do not understand -"

"I've felt it pushing against my mind for the last few days now. It whispers things about me being king of the world and crushing Sauron while it sits prettily on my finger. But that's utter rubbish. It's only trying to seduce me. Because if I ever did slip that thing on my finger, it would make me its slave. Oh, it might let me believe I was doing some good for a while, but by the time it had me convinced it was the best thing since the Sword of Gryffindor, I would be completely unable to fight its pull on me and I'd be trapped: living a lie of invincibility while it plotted a way to get me to take it to its real master."

His moody friend was obviously affected by the revelation. Boromir's hands shook and he had to grip the rocky prominence to still them.

"Can you imagine the damage I would do with that thing on my finger?" Neville asked softly. "A wizard, unlike any Middle Earth has ever seen, corrupted by the pull of such a dark object? I'd be a bloody nightmare."

"Yet you resist its pull," the man whispered. "You fight its malice where I cannot."

The teenager leaned forward slightly. "That's because I have the benefit of the Valar's knowledge. They told Molly and I all of its dirty secrets. And don't forget, I've faced liars before. Voldemort, Fudge, Umbridge... When you've heard one lying bastard going on about 'a better life' and how they 'only want to improve society for the greater good', it's easy to recognise the same deception in others - even if it is a stupid bit of gold."

"I see. But Aragorn is a Man also; he does not share the benefit of your experiences, yet he manages to resist better than I."

"That's because he's got something to prove. How do you think he feels, knowing his much-touted ancestor - famous for causing Sauron's downfall the first time - was stupid enough to think he could control his weapon and kept the ruddy thing, instead of destroying it? Because of Isildur's greed, the Dark Lord's been able to recover and is now in a position to kick the stuffing out of all the Free People's of Middle Earth. The thing can try to seduce him all it wants, but my bet is that he wouldn't touch it with a bargepole, not if he didn't want to make the same mistake as his long-dead relative."

Boromir bowed his head and sighed. "Then I am an ideal target for its seduction, it seems, for I have no stain to wipe from my family's ancestry. I am merely a desperate Man who wishes to save his people and destroy my enemies, that my City may once more enjoy the peace and beauty of its glorious past. I _am_ weak."

Oh crikey, this was not the time for a crisis of confidence!

"You're not weak, you daft beggar! That thing's been working on you for weeks but you've managed to withstand it - despite the fact that your city's in the most immediate danger of anywhere else, despite the fact that you and Aragorn are always at each other's throats and despite the fact..."

Perhaps he shouldn't say the next bit...

But Boromir was gagging for the punch line. "Yes?"

Oh well. In for a penny ...

"Despite the fact that you're a right miserable git at times."

Dark eyebrows rose in affront.

Probably a good idea not to give him a chance to respond to that ...

"What I'm trying to say, is that despite everything, you haven't given in to it. Even though you could've made a grab for it weeks ago and been well on your way to Gondor by now, you've resisted. You must be really annoying it! After all, Isildur took one look at it and couldn't slip it on his ruddy finger fast enough! But you've managed to fend it off for ages!"

To Neville's surprise, Boromir laughed. He actually_ laughed_!

"Ah, you are a strange one, young Wizard. With one breath you call me miserable and with another, you paint me as honourable as kings of old."

"With the exception of the Nine Kings of Men," said the teenager impudently.

Another chuckle.

"I will not deny that I hear its insidious call and that it disturbs my rest. There is no use in doing so now. But I take strength in knowing that I do not face this battle alone."

He placed a hand on the youth's shoulder. "Thank you, my young friend, for your words. I cannot say that they will shield me from the weapon's dark arts, but I know they will strengthen my resolve to fight."

"Oh, it's lovely to see you two boys getting along so famously!"

Startled, they spun around to see Molly walking towards them with two plates of steaming hot food. Fortunately, she was still on her approach and couldn't have heard their low voices, but it still rattled the pair enough share a conspiratorial glance.

A silent promise to each other not to reveal their conversation to anyone else.

And while both of them lived, they never did.

**XXX**

_25__th__-26__th__ February 3019_

The lawn of Parth Galen was not nearly as impressive as the Argonath had been the day before. Neville's jaw had dropped when he spotted the two towering figures of kings on either side of the river, holding out their hands in warning and frowning up at the north.

Which he'd found a bit odd, actually. Hadn't their father ruled the northern kingdom of Arnor? Perhaps there had been a family tiff and this was their way of telling Dad not to visit until he'd apologised for being a git?

Bit extreme though...

Next to the Pillars of Kings, the much touted lawn of Parth Galen was little more than a wide stretch of grass and a tree-covered hill.

Aragorn was gazing at it in wonder as they stepped off the boats, and he only tore his eyes from it long enough to seek the youth's opinion. Not wanting to say how disappointed he was, he plastered a smile across his face and gave the man two thumbs up. The ranger looked a little confused, but took it as a positive sign and smiled briefly.

The company drew the boats up on the shore and made camp for the night. Aragorn set a watch and Gimli and Frodo took their positions. But Neville was awakened In the small hours of the night by whispering and he rolled over to the side, opening his eyed to see Aragorn and Frodo studying a little sword that was emitting a faint blue glow.

Curious, he dragged himself from his bedroll and walked over to them.

"What's wrong?" he asked the man.

"Orcs."

Alarmed, Neville whipped out his wand and circled the area.

"They are not yet near, young Wizard," assured Aragorn.

Ruddy well near enough if Frodo's sword was glowing like a beacon.

"It may be that Sting senses them on the eastern shore. If not, and they are on our side, then they are not yet near enough for us to mount an armed defence. Nonetheless, we must go forward with caution on the morrow."

Right. If you say so. The teenager wasn't too thrilled with the idea of shrugging off the threat and was in two minds whether to wake Molly and get her to set up the tents. They hadn't used them so far because they agreed it was a bit time-consuming to pull them out, erect them and then ward them against unfriendly eyes, especially when there wasn't always the time (or the space) to do so. Most of the company preferred to sleep in groups by the fire anyway. However, Parth Galen was certainly large enough to pitch both tents and the Fellowship surely wouldn't object to the lingering smell of Ron's old socks if it meant they'd be safe?

In the end, he decided to trust the ranger's judgement. Aragorn hadn't led them astray so far, so if he said the orcs were too far off to trouble them that night, then he'd take him at his word.

He returned to his bedroll and lay down, trying to get back to sleep. But he was unable to shake the disquieting feeling that the next day would bring a significant change to the group's dynamics.

For good or ill...

It was a very determined Neville who woke the next day. Before breakfast, he marched up to Legolas and Aragorn and hit their quivers with an Ever-Full charm.

"Just in case," he said gravely.

He really wished he could do the same for the others, but the elf and the ranger were the only archers in the group: everyone else used axes, or swords.

Which reminded him...

Grabbing his knapsack, he yanked it open and pulled the Sword of Gryffindor free.

"Do you really think you're going to need that, dear?" asked Molly, alarmed at the steely glint in his eye.

"Dunno. But I should've had it out from day one. There's no point in me getting lessons from Boromir if all I'm going to do is keep it stuffed in my bag."

Gimli nodded in approval. "Wise words, lad. There is no telling when an extra weapon may be required - especially in these dark times."

The dwarf marched off to join his comrades for breakfast and Neville decided to be a little more forthright with his Guardian.

"There may be orcs nearby. Aragorn's not sure if they're on this side of the river, or the other, but you'll need to keep your eyes peeled. We have to protect Frodo and the hobbits."

He paused as he remembered one of his visions. What was it he saw again? Boromir, Merry and Pippin in some strange woods?

But there were no woods nearby. His eyes swept the flat lawn and rolling hills, flicking over Aragorn's much loved Amon Hen...

The trees! The hill was covered in trees which marched away westward down the shore. Was he blind?

"Molly, stay close to Boromir and the younger hobbits," he said urgently, kicking himself for his idiocy. "And when we get back home, remind me to get my eyes tested."

The matronly witch looked alarmed. "Orcs? Boromir and the younger hobbits? Your eyesight? Neville dear, are you quite well?"

He rolled his eyes. "Look, last night Aragorn said there were orcs nearby. And one of my visions in Galadriel's Mirror was of Boromir, Merry and Pippin fighting off a huge number of them on their own. One of us has to stay with them, to make sure they're alright."

Molly shoved her hands on her hips. "And what about you? In case you have forgotten, I'm supposed to be _your _Guardian! Who'll be looking out for you while I'm busy looking out for them?"

"Oh, I dunno: me and the other five members of the Fellowship, perhaps?" he whispered desperately. She frowned, but he ignored it. "Look, there's no time to argue about this. I'm fairly handy with a wand you know, but even I can't be two places at once. It makes sense that you watch out for them if we get split up. I wouldn't be much use to the Fellowship if I didn't plan their safety using all the resources to hand. And you can't really mean that you'd abandon the others just to keep an eye on me?"

She flushed in annoyance. He knew it was a low blow, but he could still hear the echo of the Horn of Gondor and see the terrified faces of Merry and Pippin as they bravely fought the charging masses of the enemy.

"Please Molly? I'll be no use to the others if I'm too distracted by the cries of the younger ones. Please?"

Begging wasn't very dignified.

But it was very effective.

"Oh, all right then," she said. "It's not as if I could bear to see them hurt, either. But let me warn you, Neville Longbottom - if we do get attacked by a horde of rampaging orcs and you don't take care of yourself, I'll hunt you down and hex you into the afterlife myself!"

Hex him into the afterlife? His eyes followed her as she joined the others. Molly had been spending too much time around a certain dwarf...

It was after breakfast that Aragorn gathered the company together and spoke to them.

"The day has come at last," he said: "the day of choice which we have long delayed. What shall now become of our Company that has travelled so far in fellowship? Shall we turn west with Boromir and go to the wars of Gondor; or turn east to the Fear and Shadow; or shall we break our Fellowship and go this way and that as each may choose? Whatever we do must be done soon. We cannot long halt here. The Enemy is on the eastern shore, we know; but I fear that the Orcs may already be on this side of the water."

There was a long silence in which no one spoke or moved.

"Well, Frodo," said Aragorn at last. "I fear that the burden is laid upon you. You are the Bearer appointed by the Council. Your own way you alone can choose. In this matter I cannot advise you. I am not Gandalf, and though I have tried to bear his part, I do not know what design or hope he had for this hour, if indeed he had any. Most likely it seems that if he were here now the choice would still wait on you. Such is your fate."

Frodo looked pensive and he didn't answer immediately. Neville couldn't blame him. What a choice to have to make. But then the dark-haired hobbit finally spoke.

"I know that haste is needed, yet I cannot choose. The burden is heavy. Give me an hour longer and I will speak. Let me be alone!"

Aragorn's gaze was sympathetic. "Very well, Frodo son of Drogo. You shall have an hour and you shall be alone. We will stay here for a while. But do not stray far out of call."

Neville heard Sam muttering under his breath, but couldn't catch his words. Frodo rose silently and walked away. The remaining Fellowship did him the grace of not staring at him as he left.

Except Boromir…

The rest of the Fellowship milled about for over half an hour discussing their course of action. Boromir, having made his decision before leaving Rivendell, returned to the shore and began to ferry the packs and other supplies into the boats while the others talked.

Gimli was all for following Frodo, stating that he'd travelled so far with that intent and even abandoned his heart's treasure in Lothlórien to keep to his word. Legolas agreed, as did Sam, Merry and Pippin.

But Aragorn thought that it may be best to split the Fellowship up, and the younger hobbits were very vocal about his plan to pack them off to Gondor with Boromir while everyone else made for Mordor.

Neville didn't blame them for being upset. They'd come so far to help their cousin already, and they were not completely thrilled about abandoning him at the final stage of the quest. He'd feel the same way, if he were in their shoes. Merry asked why they didn't try and stop Frodo from heading off into the Dark Lord's lands and Pippin agreed that they must indeed stop him.

"If we can't stop him, we shan't leave him!" he declared defiantly.

Sam begged his pardon and informed him that they didn't understand his master at all, then asked what the good of Minas Tirith was anyway, referring to Aragorn's plan to send Merry and Pippin there.

"Begging your pardon, Mr Boromir," the little gardener added apologetically, turning around to address the Gondorian.

Which was when they discovered that he wasn't there any more.

Sam, deeply suspicious of the moody man at the best of times, seemed slightly agitated but dismissed his absence as Boromir leaving for his city without offering farewells, before explaining what was probably going through Frodo's mind. He told the assembled company that his master knew what he had to do, but was afraid of taking the first step and that when he did, he may very well choose to slip into Mordor alone. Neville thought the gardener was making a lot of sense. So did Aragorn.

The ranger was just agreeing with Pippin that the hour must surely be up, when Boromir reappeared. He came out from the trees and walked towards them with a sad look on his face.

"Where have you been, Boromir?" asked Aragorn warily. "Have you seen Frodo?"

Boromir hesitated for a second. "Yes and no."

"What does that mean?" demanded Neville, annoyed that the man had slipped away without him noticing. "And what the ruddy hell were you doing up there anyway? I know you heard Frodo saying he wanted to be left alone!"

Grey eyes flashed at him in anger. "How quick you are to accuse, _friend_," the man said in a dangerous voice.

"Enough! Tell me what else you have to say, son of Gondor," demanded Aragorn, looking at the man rather unfavourably.

Boromir relented, tearing his gaze from the disappointed teenager and casting his eyes on the ground. " I found him some way up on the hill, and I spoke to him. I urged him to come to Minas Tirith and not to go east. I grew angry when he refused and after a while, he left me. He vanished. I have never seen such a thing happen before, though I have heard of it in tales. He must have put the Ring on. I could not find him."

"Is that all you have to say?" said Aragorn, whose gaze had turned as hard as rock.

"Yes. I will say no more yet."

Neville was absolutely fuming at the arrogant twat. What the hell was he doing trotting off to confront Frodo while the rest of them of them were safely out of reach? Hadn't he listened to a bloody word he'd said?

Molly laid her hands on his arms and faced him. "What's done is done, dear. Let's just see if we can't find the poor boy now, hmm?"

Aragorn asked how long it had been since Boromir had last seen Frodo and the Gondorian replied stiffly. "Half an hour."

Half an hour! Merlin knew where he was. Breaking free of his Guardian's grip, he rushed into the woods after the others. "Stay with the younger ones" he cried as Merry and Pippin dashed ahead crying Frodo's name. He quickly overtook them and ran up the hill. Aragorn had his hands full trying to contain the frantic gardener of Bag End, while Legolas and Gimli ran in a different direction, trying to head the Ring-bearer off.

Trusting that Molly would stay true to her word and protect Boromir, Merry and Pippin, he wove through the trees trying to find any sign of Frodo. The Sword of Gryffindor was thumping away on his left hip, where he had secured it with an old school tie (much to Boromir's amusement), but he had his wand tightly gripped in his right hand as he ran up the hill.

Which was just as well.

No sooner had he climbed ten metres, than a wave of arrows came whistling towards him.

"_Protego_!" he cried, dismayed that their pursuers were so close by after all. He thought the Fellowship had more time before they located them. The arrows bounced off his shimmering shield and he fired a few Blasting charms amidst the trees when he caught sight of the first flat-faced, sneering enemies. Several orcs flew backwards into their comrades, but it wasn't effective enough to stop all of them.

A few of the larger creatures were armed with some sort of crossbow, and the arrows they shot flew faster down the slope than the ones fired by hand and bow. They were easy enough to ward off with the others, but the sheer speed and number of them was becoming a problem. Any that missed his shield travelled further downhill, where the rest of the company was.

Time to take them out.

Ducking behind a tree, he tried to get a better view of the larger creatures and started firing Reductos at their crossbows. The ugly contraptions exploded in the arms of their bearers (and one unfortunate orc was speared through the eye with his own arrow - shaft first), causing a lot of confusion amidst the ranks of the enemy. But it didn't stop their descent. On the contrary, the sight of their fellow warriors being pierced by the splintering wood only angered them and they yelled in fury as the came rushing down the hill towards him.

Oh for goodness' sake! He didn't have _time_ for this. Frodo was wandering Merlin knew where, with the ruddy Ring on his finger acting like a beacon for the flaming Eye of Sauron, and these idiots wanted to play Spot The Wizard?

All right then ...

Firing off a volley of spells with one hand, he shoved the other into his_ very_ well cushioned pocket and pulled out some squirming Bubotuber pods. The nearest orcs, hit by his multiple Full Body-Bind curses, had toppled to the ground, unmoving. This resulted in enough confusion amidst their friends to give the teenager time to slip out from behind the tree and throw the pods in their direction. Just as the pods were about to hit the creatures, he blasted them with Reductor curses, so that the thick, yellowy-green liquid they contained exploded into the faces and eyes of his astonished enemies.

When the undiluted pus made direct contact with exposed flesh, their agonised screams were like music to his (very sadistic) ears. Orcs stumbled around in terror, clawing furiously at the huge sores which had suddenly appeared on their faces. A few of them had been rendered blind when the pus struck their eyes, and they screeched in agony as they ran about like headless chickens, running into trees and knocking themselves out.

An unexpected, but very welcome, side-effect.

Neville grinned. What a great idea to have the pods so close to hand! Gran would be very proud of him!

With a wicked smile on his face and a gleam of mischief in his eyes, he broke his cover behind the tree and ran up the hill, throwing as many pods at his enemies as his pockets still held (which, thanks to Molly's handy Enlargement charm, was a lot) and his path suddenly cleared as the remaining orcs fled in horror after watching the devastation he had caused to their ranks.

Thank goodness for that! Now, if only Frodo had had the sense to hide himself somewhere when these idiots had appeared ...

But he was unable to spot any sign of the gentlehobbit.

"Frodo!" he called desperately. "Frodo, it's me, Neville! Where the ruddy hell are you?"

No answer. He could hear the distant shouts of the others some way down the hill as he neared the summit and it was with some dismay that he realised they hadn't found him either.

Where was he? Had he been captured? The thought of the gentile hobbit in the hands of the coarse orcs was enough to fill him with anger.

But the anger changed once again to dismay as a familiar chill of fear washed over him. A chill which grew steadily the quicker he ascended ...

Cold sweat popped out on his forehead as he reached the summit of the hill. Neville instinctively slipped behind one of the last remaining trees. Frodo was not there.

But someone else was.

A tall, terrible figure in black stood before the seat of Amon Hen, surveying the progress of the orcs as they barrelled their way through the trees, screaming in murderous rage at his friends. Potent, dark malice oozed its way from the figure's form, inciting the remaining dozen or so orcs at the base of the stone structure into an eager frenzy. They were chomping at the bit to follow the others and cause some serious damage to innocent people, and they were, without a doubt, the biggest orcs he had seen yet.

Massive, actually.

"Let us go after 'em, my Lord," said one of the orcs in a guttural voice. "We'll find yore 'alflings for yer."

A chorus of agreement followed this, but the dark figure did not answer.

Hmm. This might be a good time to slip away and warn the others. Clearly, this was the Nazgûl Legolas and Molly had shot from the sky two days ago, but it hadn't died. It had survived and lain in wait for them. Sneaky git.

Although this was a blow, it was not as bad as it might have been because the creature obviously didn't have Frodo, otherwise he wouldn't be standing there. Still, it wouldn't do any good to tempt fate and give it the chance of finding the elusive Ring-bearer.

Taking a few cautious steps backwards, he turned, ready to slip back down the hill and find Aragorn, but before he could, a harsh cry from the summit froze him in his tracks.

"Manflesh!"

Whirling around, he saw that he'd been spotted. The black figure was making its way down the steps - practically gliding, actually - as two of the delighted creatures sped towards him, teeth gleaming wickedly.

Neville lost sight of the Nazgûl for a moment as they blocked his view, waving their long swords in anticipation of the kill.

Oh, bloody brilliant! His skin was crawling with unpleasant tingles at the proximity of the Black Rider and he could barely focus his panicked mind with the dread and fear it was sending in his direction. But he still managed well enough to hit them with a few of the last remaining Bubotubers. The Reducto that followed wasn't his strongest, but it was enough to burst the pods just before they came into contact with the orcs' faces.

Large, ugly sores appeared on their flesh and they wailed in pain, running around the hill in agony before finally crashing into each other and knocking themselves senseless.

If the circumstances hadn't been so dire, he would've liked to have stayed around to finish off the others, but that ruddy Nazgûl with its Dementor-like powers was seriously affecting his ability to focus. He was desperate to get away from its pall of terror.

But he had lingered too long already. While he had been taking care of the first two orcs, the Nazgûl had despatched the rest to block his exit, so that when Neville turned to stumble back down the hill, his escape path was cordoned off by at least four enormous orcs leering up and him and forcing him back up the incline.

He tried to ward them off with his wand, but the growing chill on his back told him the Nazgûl was getting even closer and he couldn't so much as mutter a Stinging hex as black dread crawled up his spine and consumed him.

"Leave the boy. I will deal with him," came a terrible hiss from less than a metre away.

Get a grip, Longbottom! Get a ruddy grip! It's not a Dementor!

Neville's mantra seemed to have some effect; at least, enough to help him turn and face the new threat like a man.

However, he couldn't see the creature's face from beneath the cowl of its robe.

Which suited him just fine, actually. He didn't need to look into the git's eyes to know he was every bit as bad as a self-deluded Riddle. Giving up on his wand, he holstered it and freed the Sword of Gryffindor.

Time to see if Boromir's lessons had paid off …

But before he could raise it to take a shaky swipe at the malicious entity, it spoke to its minions again - and the words made him gasp in confused horror.

"Find the Halflings. Secure the Witch. Kill the others."

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Author's Note_: Some of the later dialogue was taken directly from 'The Fellowship of the Ring': Book Two, Chapter 10 - The Breaking of the Fellowship.

Ta da! What's going on _there_ then, eh? Has the Nazgûl taken a fancy for a witchy wench? Or does he know something we don't? Time will tell.

Next weekend - Augusta causes more havoc as she blazes her way through the lands of the West searching for her errant grandson!

Kara's Aunty ;)


	11. There's No Such Thing As A Witch

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. and Lord of the Rings and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

**Credit:** www dot hp-encyclopedia dot com and www dot Tuckborough dot net,

**Please review - it really _is_ my only reward.**

**Not Quite A Maia**

**Chapter 11**

* * *

_Several days earlier (14th-27th February 3019)_

_Wizard's Vale, Isengard_

Augusta marched smartly down the road behind her unhappy captive, safely under the concealment of a Disillusionment charm. To any enemy eyes in the Wizard's Vale glancing in their direction, their gaze would meet nothing more intimidating than the figure of a (furiously itchy) orc, making its way from Isengard to the Gap of Rohan on a scouting mission.

Not long after their journey commenced, Grodek had chanced a glance backward and, spotting no one behind him, made the mistake of thinking that the elderly witch had abandoned her intention of journeying to Rohan. Excited at his sudden, inexplicable liberation, he turned around and broken into a run in the direction of Orthanc to warn his master of this strange new threat, only to find himself sailing backwards through the air and crashing into the paved road.

"And just where do you think you're going, my good fellow?" came the disembodied voice of his worst nightmare from...somewhere.

The orc scanned the surrounding area, but could spot no sign of the old woman or her very intimidating hat. She wasn't on the road, nor was she concealed behind the reeds swaying by the river's edge.

"Where are yer?" he cried, alarmed that she could see him, but he could not see head nor tail of her.

"Right here," came a low voice in his left ear. Grodek jumped in fright and scrambled to his feet, waving his hands in front of him to try and locate her.

The Longbottom matriarch rolled her eyes. Idiot!

"What on earth do you think you're doing?" she snapped impatiently.

"Trying ter find yer."

"What the devil for? It's enough for you to know I'm here without having to see me. Now, turn around and set about getting me to Rohan before I lose my patience and have to start using those lovely Stinging hexes again."

She allowed a slight smile to grace her lips as the anxious creature reluctantly turned his back on the unseen threat she presented and started to stumble down the valley.

There, that was much better!

Grunting in satisfaction, she followed a few steps behind him as they journeyed ever closer to her destination. At first, she had been wondering exactly how they were going to get to the main city of Edoras. According to her miserable guide, it would be necessary to travel for many days south down the Westfold, past a large fortress guarding the southern end of the Gap of Rohan which the Rohirrim called Helm's Deep. But she had changed her mind when Grodek told her about that. If this Helm's Deep was one of the main defences of their land, then there was sure to be some sort of military presence installed in it. It would be a better idea to stop there, rid herself of her repulsive captive (the stench rolling off his unwashed hide was unbelievable) and see about getting more suitable guidance to their main city.

Hopefully a dashing Australian with good teeth.

Well, even a plain Australian with dentures would do. Anything was better than the cretin in front of her...

Pleased with her plan, Augusta put a bit more spring in her step and decided what she was going to do to her errant grandson when she found him. She was not thrilled about having to traipse her way through the wilds of some uncivilised backwater with little more to rely on than her wits and her wand, and no one for company but a malodorous, foul-mouthed orc. Neville would answer for this!

A sudden gust of cold wind brought the hideous stench of Grodek's unwashed form to her nostrils and, fed up with it, she hit him with a Scourgify.

"Oi! What's yer fink yore doing?" yelled the foaming creature, suds sliding over his bald head and dripping down his back.

"Giving you a much needed wash, you disgusting animal," she replied haughtily.

"I don't need no wash," he said angrily, spitting soap from his mouth and batting furiously at the lavender scented bubbles covering his filthy clothes.

"I beg to differ. You smell like a tannery and I'm afraid I'm not in the mood to tolerate it much longer. If you object to your treatment, I could always dip you in the river instead."

She knew that would shut him up: the temperature was well below zero in the open air. It would only be worse in the water.

"It's not right, I tell ya! A flowery Orc? I'll be the laughin' stock of Orthanc!"

What on earth was he complaining about? Surely that was normal for the stupid creature anyway?

Augusta ignored his grumbles and continued to hit him with Cleaning charms. It took ten whole minutes of washing, scrubbing and some very violent retching on Grodek's part before she was finally satisfied with her work. The next time the wind hit her flaring nostrils, all she could smell was the very pleasing scent of a spring bouquet.

Grodek, however, was extremely unhappy. "I stink!" he wailed, looking as close to tears as she'd ever seen him.

Poppycock! He did not stink, quite the contrary - he smelled like those pretty little flowers that exploded from Puffapod beans when they were dropped on the ground. Neville made quite the ceremony of that each May, dragging her out to the back garden and handing her fistfuls of the little things. It was the only time he let her touch his plants and she quite enjoyed it, actually.

"Stop complaining, you old misery guts. Anyone would think you were allergic to soap and water, the way you go on."

"When my master finds out 'ow you've been treatin' me, 'e'll have yore head!" cried Grodek.

"I think it more likely he'd thank me for introducing you to the benefits of adequate personal hygiene," she muttered. "Anyway, you needn't worry about your master discovering your penchant for baby soft skin; it's not as if we'll be visiting him any time soon."

Which was (of course) the wrong thing to say. No sooner had the words left her mouth than they heard a faint _thump, thump, thump _coming from somewhere behind them. The sound grew with every passing second and Augusta huffed in annoyance.

Botheration!

"I thought this road was supposed to be quiet?" she demanded of the flowery orc.

"We's on'y a few leagues from Isengard. What's yer expect? Ol' Saruman always 'as battalions of Orcs and Uruk-hai coming and going. Don't yer know we're at war?"

Of course. War. In Australia...

She briefly debated the possibility of ambushing the approaching orcs, but quickly dismissed it. The heavy thumping of boots suggested that their numbers were greater than the scouting party she'd disposed of a few hours ago (she'd made the decision to hide the corpses minutes after leaving the cave and, annoyed at having to trek the short distance back to them, piled them in the same cave she had left her pee-riddled commode - wouldn't do to leave signs of a struggle so close to an enemy's door). There was no doubt in her mind that she could deal with the inept creatures, but if this was one of Saruman's battalions, he'd be quicker to notice their disappearance than the mere half dozen or so scouts further back in the Wizard's Vale.

Making her decision, she grabbed Grodek by the ear and dragged him off the road towards the slope of the Last Mountain. "Well, then. We'd better conceal you, don't you think? I can't have your friends getting their hands on my ticket to Rohan."

But how to conceal him? If she put him under a Disillusionment charm, he was as likely to give her the slip as not and there was no time find adequate refuge in a cave - it had taken her half an hour to find the last one. Perhaps a Notice-Me-Not charm?

The problem was taken out of her hands, however, as the first of the orcs rounded the bend and caught sight of their miserable comrade loitering casually by the mountainside.

"Oi, you! What's yer doing standin' there like a useless lump? Get over 'ere!"

Fiddlesticks! She hadn't realised they were so close. Now there was no choice but to trust her captive to lie convincingly.

"Well, you'd better get over there. Tell them you're part of a scouting party or something, then make your way back. We'll wait here for them to leave and then we can be on our way."

Augusta gave him a slight shove towards the road, but Grodek seemed strangely reluctant to go.

"What on earth are you waiting for? Christmas? Move it!"

"I can't!" he whispered desperately.

Oh for pity's sake...

"Whyever not?" snapped the elderly witch as the long line of troops drew ever nearer.

"I smell funny."

"Don't be so ridiculous! What on earth does that have to do with anything?"

"Orcs don't like flowers. They gets a whiff o' me smellin' like a bloomin' garden an' I'm done for!"

"If you stand around here like a spineless idiot for much longer, you're done for," she growled.

Really! What the deuce did he imagine they'd do to him? She'd never heard of someone being torn limb from limb merely for taking pride in their appearance.

"Well, move it! I'll only be a few steps behind you if it makes you feel any better, you sad excuse for a soldier. And a word of warning: any tricks from you, any attempts to sneak off with your friends or even so much as one word of my presence and I'll send you screaming for the nearest warg-pit!" she hissed.

It was a very forlorn Grodek who approached the hundred-strong party of orcs barrelling down the road from Isengard. Augusta remained far enough behind him to keep out of harm's way, but near enough to hear what was being said.

The group came to a collective halt when their leader held up his right arm., She held her breath as Grodek stopped nervously before him.

Oh, dear.

The massive orc at the front was sniffing her cowering captive suspiciously. Others came forward and the leader started firing questions at Grodek. She couldn't understand a word of the harsh, ugly language they were using.

Why that duplicitous little wretch! He never mentioned a _thing_ about speaking a foreign language - he could be telling them anything and she'd never know any different!

Fuming at Grodek's sly ways, she observed the party in mounting irritation as the much smaller orc began pointing behind him furiously. The miserable creature was trying to give away her position! Fortunately for her, the larger orcs, spotting nothing where his wildly waving arm was gesturing, began to push him around and clobber him with their shields.

Augusta watched, quite satisfied. It would serve the devious twit right if she let them pound him into mince. But Grodek was proving to have more of a spine than she'd credited him for. The orc began pushing the larger ones away and turned to the leader, yelling at him most insistently while waving his arm around as if he was brandishing a wand. It was enough for the larger creature to call off the attack and despatch a small party to take a more thorough look around the area.

Her brow furrowed in annoyance as she dodged several (stinking) orcs making their way towards the edge of the mountain. Despite an intensive search, they returned to the group empty-handed and she saw the leader frowning thoughtfully. What was he going to do now?

Having made his decision, the large orc barked orders at his minions and soon Grodek's hands were tied tightly behind his back. They marched him into the midst of the party - but instead of continuing down the road in the direction they'd been heading, turned smartly about and started marching quickly in the direction they'd just came from.

They were taking him back to Isengard!

What should she do? Leave the blasted idiot to his fate and strike out for the Gap of Rohan on her own? No, impossible. She was completely unfamiliar with the territory. She'd have to follow the troops back to Orthanc and see if an opportunity presented itself to liberate her captive. If he fell into the hands of Saruman and started raving on about a witch in the wizard's own back garden ...

Rolling her eyes in frustration, she headed after the party of orcs, down the road which branched off the main thoroughfare, and onwards to the Tower of Orthanc. If she wanted to save her grandson then, like it or not (and she didn't), she needed Grodek's help. She would kill Neville for reducing her to this …

Augusta Longbottom was going on a rescue mission!

**XXX**

For many hours Augusta followed the large group, but the blasted creatures never stopped once. It was all go, go, go as far as the orcs were concerned and she was beginning to think their leader had started a rumour about Saruman handing out fresh man-flesh for tea, so eager were they to return home.

Still, at least they hadn't broken out into a run - her aching hips couldn't take it. What she wouldn't give for a nice, comfortable Cleansweep!

To make matters worse, the elderly witch hadn't caught sight of Grodek once. He'd been bundled into the centre of the formation and surrounded by the largest orcs possible. Not that the simpering creature was relishing the loving protection of his brothers-in-arms; she could hear his familiar yells of fury as he protested his treatment. Perhaps they objected to the eau de Puffapod?

Gracious, who knew that a fragrant orc was such a novelty?

It was dark by the time the small army arrived at the south entrance of the great black wall. Thankful the journey was almost over, she slipped in behind them and followed the leader as he and three others broke off from the main group, dragging a glowering Grodek with them. They passed through a tunnel and Augusta spotted two orcs leaving a store room filled with provisions. The sight of piles of fruit and vegetables lining surprisingly neat shelves, and several joints of cooked meats swinging from hooks on the ceiling, made her stomach rumble. Fortunately, her captive and his friends had stopped at the next staircase leading off from the very same room and were having a heated conversation with another inhabitant. This gave her the chance to slip inside the store room and snatch a few apples and a small loaf which she shoved in her coat pockets. She gazed longingly at the cooked ham dangling before her nose, but just as she'd decided to hack a piece off, the stomping of boots heralded the departure of her unwilling guide and she had to abandon it before she lost him.

Augusta followed once more in their (stinking) wake as they traipsed out of the tunnel and into a wide open space. Starlight lit the area and she got her first proper glimpse of the great thrust of spurting rock in the centre that had made an appearance on the horizon over an hour ago.

That must be the Tower of Orthanc.

And (naturally) the bothersome creatures were taking her captive straight to it.

Why, oh why, couldn't they have made this easy? If Grodek was their prisoner, it would have made sense to throw him in the dungeons (where she could easily rescue him). But, oh no, they had to take him all the way up to their master's chambers (probably at the top of the stupid building) and force an old woman to climb hundreds of stairs in an effort to limit the damage he may cause during his debriefing.

What a terrible nuisance!

Shaking her head in disapproval, she silently marched up the stone steps after them, checking to make sure her Disillusionment charm was going to hold out under the no doubt watchful gaze of an allegedly powerful wizard. Satisfied that it would, Augusta trailed after the malodorous group of orcs.

They entered the dark, gloomy tower and ascended (yet more) steps, which turned in a rather graceful spiral up the interior of the building. But instead of continuing up to the top of the structure, the five orcs stepped off it at the first landing and rapped on a large pair of carved ebony doors. A few seconds later, they swung open into a large, well-lit chamber. She slipped inside after the orcs and surveyed the room carefully.

It was surprisingly (thankfully) clean and bright. Tall pillars ran down each side of it (black, of course), but there was little in the way of furnishings. Indeed, the only sign of home comfort she spotted was the rather grand throne on the raised dais at the top of the room and a little table with a flask of red liquid off to its side. There were more doors to the right of the room which stood slightly ajar and the elderly witch caught a glimpse of a railed balcony; probably the one she'd spotted above the steps leading into the building.

But where was this Saruman she'd heard so much of?

The large orc leader dragged Grodek into the middle of the chamber and pulled him to a rough halt, his three friends standing respectfully behind them.

Only when all the orcs were safely positioned did the master of the house finally deign to appear. Augusta was just slipping behind one of the tall pillars in the middle of the chamber (it felt safer than hanging about in the open) when faint footfalls echoed through the room. She peeped out and saw a tall figure in grubby white robes with a very ornate walking stick approach the orcs. His white hair was disgracefully long, peppered with strands of black and his beard fell to his waist. He was a haughty looking individual, with cold, hard eyes and an enormous beak of a nose. Augusta disliked him immediately.

One should never trust a man who didn't employ the services of a good barber - or a decent tailor.

Saruman came to a sweeping halt in front of his servants and banged his walking stick on the ground, so that the sound rang through the chamber like a war hammer.

Good grief. Obviously the silly man had a fondness for dramatic entrances.

"Why have you returned so soon, Borgalak, when I despatched your troops to gather intelligence on our enemies?" demanded the wizard in a deep voice.

"Master, we was on our way ta do yore bidding when we saw this 'ere deserter tryin' ta slip up the North-South Road. We was gonna kill 'im, but 'e was 'arping on about some ol' woman slayin' a scoutin' party an' takin' 'im prisoner."

Augusta shook her head, thoroughly annoyed with her former captive. Hadn't she threatened him with certain death if he breathed one word of her existence? She would deal with him later!

"Old woman? Slaying a party of scouts?" The wizard studied Grodek's quivering form carefully. "What fiction is this?"

Grodek, relieved at the chance to finally speak with someone who might understand the magicks he had witnessed, opened his foul mouth and began to croak.

"She were really old -"

Nonsense! She wasn't _that_ old.

"- an' really ugly -"

An orc calling _her_ ugly. How very amusing.

"- an' wore an 'ideous 'at wiv a dead bird on top -"

Augusta fingered her hat fondly. On her eleventh birthday, her rather eccentric parents bought their daughter her very first post-owl. Except it was a post-_vulture_. She used to make it dive-bomb the horrible boys next door who always picked on her, and she chose her beloved pet's name carefully for that very reason: Spot. The next time little Eric Postlethwaite clambered over the garden fence to pull her pigtails, she would raise an imperious hand in the air and cry 'Spot the vulture!' The ghastly boy hadn't bothered her since.

"- an' she 'ad a magic stick."

Saruman's eyes widened slightly. "A magic stick? Are you implying she carried a staff of power? Explain yourself!"

Grodek jumped at the harsh tone. "It weren't no fine staff like yores, master. It were on'y a little stick o' wood."

"And you claim that this 'little stick of wood' harboured magical powers?"

"Yes sir, yore Lordship, sir!"

The wizard looked doubtful. "What wonders did you witness from this 'old woman' and her 'little stick of wood'?"

Botheration! She didn't have time to try and stop her flowery friend from giving her away now. Still, this could be interesting. As egotistical as it was, it would be nice to hear how impressed he was with her powerful magic.

"Well, she washed me wiv it."

Washed him? What about the flying orcs? The stonings? The hot tar? She'd done a good deal more than simply wash the stupid creature! She glared at Grodek, willing him to describe the wonder of the massacre in the Wizard's Vale.

"Washed you?" said Saruman scathingly, echoing her initial reaction. "An old woman with a stick washed you? A traumatic experience, no doubt."

Borgalak and his stinking cronies laughed derisively at the unfortunate Grodek, who's shiny (hive-free) skin gleamed like a new penny.

"But she were 'orrible, master. An' really powerful! She killed an entire scoutin' party wivout battin' 'er eyes! She could be on 'er way 'ere as we speak, ready to murder us all in our beds!"

Ah, that was more like it! Go on, you miserable wretch, impress him!

The grubby wizard turned on his heel and walked slowly towards his throne. With his back to Grodek he spoke again.

"If you expect me to believe that an old woman with a stick presents any threat to the might of Saruman, you are sadly mistaken," he said in a dangerously silky voice. "I am more inclined to believe that your commander has the right of it and that you were attempting to flee your duties. Are you aware of how I dispose of cowards?"

Augusta took a wild guess: the warg-pits?

"No, master. Don't chuck me inta the pits! I 'aven't told you the worst of it - she made the other Orcs fly!"

Finally!

Saruman stopped in his tracks and turned to face Grodek's panicked form once more. He looked slightly concerned. "What did you say?"

The orc's face was a picture of desperation. "She pointed 'er magic stick at 'em and made 'em fly across the valley! 'An she bewitched the very stones on the ground to rise up an' hit 'em! She cast ropes from 'er stick and bound me up like a stinkin' prisoner an' made me float in the air like a bleedin' feather!"

"Impossible!" cried Saruman, outraged at what he was hearing. "No woman in Middle Earth possesses such power - the Valar would scarce allow it! Women are weak, useless and incapable of harnessing the might of a staff."

Why that egotistical, self-righteous, unchivalrous swine! Augusta gripped her wand tightly, overcome with a powerful urge to make the shabby man eat his words.

"Tha's what I said, master -"

Liar.

"- but the ol' bat laughed at me an' said she were a Witch."

If that disgusting cretin called her an 'old bat' one more time, she'd make him spit glass for a week!

The wizard laughed derisively. "A Witch? There is no such thing as a Witch. I know all Istari by sight and none of them bear the form of a mere woman."

To the surprise of everyone, the room began to vibrate slightly and the windows rattled in their frames. Grodek, in a mad panic, began to yell.

"She's 'ere! She's 'ere! Didn't I tell yer she could make 'erself invisible?" he cried, rounding on Borgalak in accusation.

Botheration ...

Saruman now searched the room wildly with his hooded eyes, clearly shaken at the tremors underfoot, and Augusta took a deep breath to control her emotions. What the deuce was she thinking, allowing herself to get so riled up by a chauvinist pig? Surely she was well past the age of accidental magic?

The room settled into stillness once more, but the same could not be said for its master. Saruman lifted his walking stick ... _staff ... _into the air and he seemed to grow before her very eyes as he cried "Reveal yourself!"

_Not_ likely.

Perhaps this was a good time to wait outside for her fragrant friend and grab him on the way to the warg-pits? She didn't know what this wizard was capable of, but his magic had an unfamiliar quality to it and she wasn't keen to find out.

Slipping quietly from the pillar, Augusta made her way to the outside stairwell. But just as she was about to pass through the large chamber doors, they swung shut with a resounding clang. She whirled on the spot to find Saruman slowly walking in her direction.

"I know you are there," he said softly. "I can feel your presence now. You revealed it most unwisely when you made my chambers quiver, much like the fool standing behind me quivers in fear."

Grodek looked slightly offended.

"Why do you hide yourself, my Lady? I am your friend. Come, reveal your form and let us discuss your purpose here. Perhaps I may be of assistance? I am most keen to meet the woman who has the power to shake the bowels of Orthanc itself."

Oh really? Not a minute ago the sly fox had declared her weak. Well, she would show _him ..._

Once she knew how to get out.

"Do not be alarmed, my Lady. I mean you no harm," he whispered seductively.

Very seductively.

He had quite a pretty voice actually ...

Augusta's head was becoming a little foggy. She was torn between the need to flee and find her bothersome grandson, and the desire to stay and listen to Saruman's suddenly alluring voice. She stood before the closed doors as he approached and found herself becoming more and more captivated by his animal magnetism.

"Allow me to prove my good intentions, shy one."

He turned and barked at his followers to leave by the western exit and then faced her direction with a charming smile on his face. Such beautiful teeth. Really, they more than made up for the disaster that was his nose.

"Do you see? I present no threat to you, my Lady. I wish only to have the pleasure of making your acquaintance."

Well, since he put it like that ...

Before she knew quite what she was about, Augusta lifted the Disillusionment charm and proudly stood not three metres before the astonished wizard, primly patting her bun.

"Good day to you, my good fellow."

"My Lady." Saruman bowed politely. "What an honour it is to meet you."

She blushed as his gaze raked over her body and landed on her beloved Spot.

"May I know your name?"

Don't tell him. Don't tell him ...

"Augusta Longbottom."

Why the blazes had she done that? She was here to find Neville, not be seduced by a (really _very_ attractive) stranger with a naughty twinkle in his eye.

A naughty twinkle.

Hormones she had forgotten existed suddenly roared to life after a thirty year drought.

Neville was a big boy. He could take care of himself ...

"Well, Lady Augusta, allow me to offer you some light refreshments. You have had a long journey from Valinor and are no doubt thirsty."

No doubt. She _was_ rather thirsty - and he looked very much like a long, cold glass of lemonade to her. She'd like to run her hands over his cool exterior and take a sip of his lemony goodness.

She wouldn't mind getting her hands on his magnificent staff either.

Just as that thought flashed through her mind, Saruman suddenly pointed his (very long) staff at her, and her tiny little wand went flying from her grasp.

What the deuce?

"So," the wizard said in a very unpleasant voice. "_You_ are the one who made the very air vibrate not two days since."

His new, harsher tone penetrated the delicious sensation of unbridled lust clouding her thoughts, bringing her back to reality with a bang.

The sneaky devil had tricked her! And now she was visible and wandless! Augusta felt suddenly naked before him.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she barked, furious that she had been so easily hoodwinked.

"Come now, madam. I felt your arrival before I ever laid eyes upon you! Have the Valar sent you to spy?"

"Spy? I am no spy, you ridiculous man!"

"Indeed? Then why were you skulking unseen in my chambers?"

Skulking unseen in his chambers? The nerve! He made it sound like she had been watching him undress (a thought which might have tickled her fancy a few seconds earlier).

"I was not spying! Your smelly friends deprived me of my guide and I merely sought to recover him."

She made a grab for her wand while he considered that, but he had bargained with such an attempt and thrust his staff at her. Soon, Augusta was flying high through the air without the aid of a broom and left to dangle ten feet up against one of the many pillars at his pleasure.

She was _not_ amused! What if he looked up her skirt (thanks to her unexpected trip Down Under, she hadn't changed her knickers in two days)?

"Do you think me so witless as to allow you access to your staff?" spat the wizard.

A very angry witch glared down at him from her heightened position. "I think you witless for trifling with me, you unbelievable cad! And if you don't release me this instant, I'll hex you to within an inch of your existence!"

Saruman laughed. "And how do you propose to do that when I have your weapon ... _my Lady_."

His voice was dripping with scorn and she flailed about furiously, longing to shove his staff up his ...

"Why have you come here?"

Good heavens! The stupid man didn't actually believe she'd _tell_ him?

"Wouldn't you like to know?" she snapped.

He wasn't looking so terribly smug now, was he?

Indeed he wasn't. The grubby wizard was frowning in irritation.

"Reveal to me your purpose here, woman!"

"Certainly not!"

She went flying across the room and crashed into another of the pillars, banging her arm quite badly when she shielded her face from harm.

"You _will_ tell me what you are doing here! Have the Valar sent you to replace Gandalf? Is it their intention to defrock Saruman the White of his office?"

Defrock him? How dare the vain creature flatter himself in such a manner! Contrary to his belief, she had most certainly _not_ travelled all the way from Yorkshire just to undress him. She rubbed her aching arm and scowled at him.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, you strutting peacock. I don't know any Gandalf or Valar or anyone else that would want to send me here just to whip your overflowing skirt off."

"And I am supposed to believe that a Witch of _some_ power, small though it may be, is wandering near to the Gap of Rohan attacking my army and kidnapping my soldiers - but has not been sent by the Valar to work against me?"

He shook his head in mock sadness. "Come now, Augusta Longbottom, you sport with my intellect."

Augusta Longbottom would like to do a lot more than sport with his intellect. She'd very much like to rip his head off and use it as a Bludger. How dare he mock her!

When she refused to answer his question, Saruman speculated for himself.

"I believe that, though the hour is late, you have indeed been sent by the Valar." He paced the chamber below her, fingering her holly and dragon heartstring wand carefully. "That they, having been delivered a serious blow by Gandalf's death at my devising, seek to prevent my ascension as a ruler of Arda by sending a lesser Maia to aid the witless Men of these lands. They summoned you, clothed your spirit in the form of a female - the perfect disguise - and sent you forth to aid the Free Peoples of the West. Am I correct?"

He stopped twenty feet away and gazed up at her imperiously, very satisfied with himself.

"_You_ are an idiot!" Augusta barked, tired of listening to his self-absorbed ranting.

Saruman growled in annoyance, then changed tactics at her continued aggression.

"Your staff is most intriguing," he said, trying to win her over once more with his seductive tone.

She couldn't blame him for trying - after all, it worked so beautifully the last time. Stupid woman! Hadn't her mother warned her against dewy-eyed strangers with foreign accents? But she was not to be fooled a second time. There was more danger of her falling from this blasted pillar than there ever would be of her falling for his cheap seduction again.

The wizard, unaware of her resolve to hate him forever, continued in his silky voice. "I have never seen the likes of it before. Tell me how your staff works?"

He stopped before her and smiled benevolently, hoping to coerce her into good behaviour once more.

Perhaps she should play a trick of her own?

Plastering a glazed look on her face (being a woman of superior intellect, this was a difficult task, but she achieved it by imagining what Nagini looked like post-Neville) she gave a vapid grin and was happy to see the idiot man's smug nod of approval.

"Well, you have to make it your own, first of all," she said in a breathy voice.

Actually, being well over sixty, it came out as more of a rasp, but Saruman was too pleased by the result to care.

"And how do I do that?" he asked eagerly.

She batted her eyelids flirtatiously. "You have to make it one with yourself before you can command its power."

He moved closer, captivated. "Tell me how!"

"Oh, I don't know if I should..."

"You will tell me now!" he demanded angrily, then amended his tone to a softer, more persuasive purr: "Tell me, my Lady, and you will rule by my side in glory and splendour. A Queen amongst women."

Rule at his side indeed! She'd much rather poke him in his side...with one of those handy orc spears. Still, it wouldn't do to drop the act.

"A Queen?"

"Indeed, my Lady."

The arrogance of the man was insufferable!

"In that case, you must put the tip of the wand in your mouth…"

Saruman eyed her suspiciously.

"It's the only way. Your voice will be the one that commands it. It will trust you - it asks for your trust in return."

The wizard looked at the wand sceptically, then appeared to give a mental shrug. Augusta had to stifle her laughter as the fool popped it, tip-first, into his mouth.

"Now, close your eyes and just say the words _'Avada Kedavra'_, and you're all set."

Of course, she knew it wouldn't work, because - despite the fact he was a wizard and had captured her wand - his magic was different. But what Saruman didn't know, was that she, like many elderly witches and wizards with decades of experience behind them, had mastered the very basics of wandless magic. She'd never be able to shoot a Killing curse from her forefinger (thank goodness) or battle a horde of Death Eaters with a mere pinky, but she hadn't lived this long without having a trick or two up her sleeve. The only thing was, trying to make it look like it came from her wand...

"Avaga Kegawvra," the gullible fool mumbled around the wooden stick.

Augusta concentrated very hard and, with a subtle jerk of her finger, sent a perfectly aimed, though miserably weak, Stinging hex down through the air, up through her wand and straight into the gaping void of Saruman's mouth.

It may not have been her strongest hex, but Augusta Longbottom beamed with delight as the not-so-white-wizard screamed in pain after the curse hit the delicate membranes at the back of his mouth. Her wand went flying across the room as he jumped back in shock, clutching at his aching throat.

His cry alerted the orcs in the next room and Borgalak rushed back in through the west doors brandishing his spear.

"Master! What 'appened? Is you alright, master?"

Saruman could only gag in reply. He rushed to the only table in the room and tipped a flask of dark red liquid down his throat. It must have done something to ease the burning, because soon after, he twirled around and came thundering back across the chamber, face scarlet with anger.

"You will pay for that, Witch!"

"Is that so? You know, you're not really angry at me, you silly man: you're angry at _yourself_ for being such an idiot. What you're experiencing at this moment is called 'complete and utter humiliation at being bested by a mere woman'. Enjoy it."

The wizard was livid with rage. He released her from her floating bonds and Augusta fell the few short feet to the floor, spraining her ankle as she landed. "Take her to the dungeons at the base of the Tower! Immediately! _GET HER OUT OF MY SIGHT_!"

Borgalak, terrified at his master's anger, couldn't move fast enough. With one massive hand, he grabbed her by the scruff of her neck and threw her over his shoulder, then rushed towards the door.

If the smell of Grodek had been nauseating, the stink rolling off the larger creature's backside was infinitely worse. But despite her smarting arm, throbbing ankle, and inelegant departure, the formidable woman still had enough fire left in her for a parting shot.

"You are the worst excuse for a host I've ever come across! This is no way to treat tourists! And just so you know: _I'll be back for my wand later_!"

His scream of rage followed her out the chamber, before he slammed the doors shut in her face.

How rude!

**XXX**

If Augusta thought little of her welcome into Orthanc, then she thought even less of its dungeons. Far down in the bowels of the tower, the long row of cells stood side by side, lit only by torchlight flickering on the opposite wall. They were small, cramped and dirty. Her own cell was little larger than a cupboard and was situated at the far end of the corridor. Borgalak threw her into it and slammed the iron gate behind her, sneering all the while.

"Yore in trouble now, Witchy," he growled harshly. "No one gets the better o' my master an' lives long enough ter tell about it!"

She picked herself off the filthy floor and straightened herself up as best as she could. "Well, we'll see about that, won't we? Your master is an incompetent fool and when I get out of here, I intend to make an example of him."

Borgalak laughed. "How's you goin' ter get out of 'ere then? Yer ain't got yore staff and yer ain't got no strength. Ain't no chance o' yer rippin' these 'ere iron bars off the gates, is there?"

"I'll rip your disrespectful tongue out of your mouth and wrap it round your neck if you don't leave this instant, you witless buffoon."

The orc gave a shout of laughter and bowed impertinently. "As yer wish - me Lady!"

Was the horrible creature poking fun at her one moment of weakness? Why, when she got her wand back, she'd fry his toes off with it!

She watched him trudge down to the far end of the corridor until his massive frame was swallowed by the darkness. Once he had fully disappeared, she investigated her surroundings more thoroughly. The cell was only large enough for a wooden slab that was secured against the back wall. Mouldy hay littered the floor (along with heaven knew what else) and there was a bucket in the corner.

Well, they had better not imagine she was going to do her business in that mucky thing.

A strange odour permeated the air of the dungeon and it took several minutes for the elderly witch to identify what it was.

Fear.

No doubt several poor souls had breathed their last in this place; tortured, mutilated and killed for information to feed Saruman's burning need for power.

Well, _she_ wouldn't be joining them, or her name wasn't Augusta Longbottom!

Harrumphing at the disgraceful accommodation, she hobbled over to what passed for the bed and wiped it down with a hankie before sitting. She'd need to indulge in some more of that wandless magic if she had any hope of getting out of here, by the look of it. But, heavens! It always took so much out of her and she was already exhausted from the very strenuous day…

Deciding to take some rest before making another attempt, Augusta took off her coat and laid it over the wooden slab. It was not quite the magnificent creation of a bed she'd been able to conjure up the day before, but it would do for the present.

With the bedding taken care of, she hooked her good foot around her aching ankle and lifted it smartly off the ground, swinging both legs onto her 'bed'. She used the hankie to bind her injured foot then lay down, using her hat in place of a pillow. After a few minutes, the exhausted witch's eyes began to flutter closed.

No use in worrying about her situation just now. Saruman would be unlikely to bother her for the rest of the night. It should be perfectly safe to take forty winks and plan her next move.

After all, tomorrow was another day.

**XXX**

Augusta woke up several hours later feeling much more refreshed and alert. Her gaze swept the cell-filled corridor, but there was no sign of any lumbering orcs coming to drag her before the idiot upstairs so she could show him up again.

Probably terrified of her.

And so he jolly well should be! Imagine treating a harmless little old lady like a criminal and throwing her in the dungeons with little light and no water? Not to mention the lack of proper facilities.

Absolutely disgraceful!

At least she had her bread and apples. Fishing a plump red and yellow one out of her pocket, she sank her teeth into it, savouring the sweet trickle of juice that filled her mouth. It wasn't a bracing bowl of slightly salted porridge by any means, but it was fresh, crisp and delicious, and it filled her with the energy she required to plan her escape.

Throwing the core in the bucket-cum-not-on-your-life-will-I pee-in-that-sorry-excuse-for-a-loo, she inspected the damage to her ankle. Not so bad, actually. She'd managed to stave off the worst of the swelling by keeping it elevated throughout the night. Her arm was badly bruised from hitting the pillar the evening before, and she touched it gingerly. Thankfully, nothing worse than bruising. Her coat had offered enough padding to prevent the bones snapping.

So, now that that was settled, how to get out?

Augusta sincerely doubted that Borgalak would kindly open the door if she asked him to whenever he next put in an appearance. Standing up, she cautiously hobbled to the iron grate that kept her from freedom and put her finger to the lock. Concentrating, she attempted to open it with a wandless Alohomora, without success.

Dash it all! Why in the name of Merlin had she thought she'd never need the skill again? It never hurt to practice it every once in a while. But she hadn't utilised the art in ages and had been very surprised at her stroke of luck the night before when she'd managed to singe her disgraceful host's vocal cords.

Botheration! She didn't have time for this; there was an errant grandson to find!

Perhaps she should try a spell that was a little less demanding?

Hobbling back to the slab, she sat down and put her thinking cap on.

It seemed the only way to get out of this horrible place was to wait for someone to drag her back out to Saruman. But who knew how long that would be? Maybe there was some way to bring her gaoler to her?

She smiled.

Oh, yes. That ought to do the trick!

Flexing her digits, she put her bony index finger to her throat and concentrated with all the iron will of a desperate grandmother.

"_Sonorus_."

Now to see if it had worked...

"TESTING, TESTING, ONE, TWO, THREE!"

Her voice boomed down the corridor, out into the stairwell and up into the heady heights of the Tower of Orthanc.

Oh, splendid!

"HELLO? HELLO? I SAY, IS ANYONE THERE?"

No reply.

Never mind. It was an awfully big place and it might take someone a while to get here.

Very satisfied that her rusty skills weren't letting her down, she sat further back on the slab and proceeded to chat to anyone within hearing distance (which was, well, everyone, actually).

" I MUST SAY, I DON'T THINK VERY MUCH OF THE ACCOMODATIONS DOWN HERE! DO YOU REALISE THERE ARE SEVERAL HIGHLY SUSPICIOUS BIOLOGICAL STAINS ON THE WALLS? AND NOT A LOO IN SIGHT! I DEMAND TO SPEAK TO THE MANAGER - AT ONCE!"

She could hear a frantic yelling in the distance. Feet were pounding their way towards the dungeons, which made the elderly witch very happy indeed.

"YES, THAT'S IT…HURRY UP YOU CUMBERSOME OAF! I DON'T HAVE ALL DAY TO SIT AROUND HERE AND WAIT, YOU KNOW."

The pounding feet grew closer and she heard the sound of growling as a massive figure passed through the archway at the edge of the corridor.

Borgalak.

And he wasn't happy...

"What's yer fink yer doin'!" he yelled in fury. "Are yer tryin' ter wake the bleedin' dead?"

Augusta cocked a thin eyebrow and waved her hand airily down the corridor, indicating the row of empty cells. "GIVEN THE STATE OF THIS PLACE, I IMAGINE THERE'S QUITE A LOT OF THE DEAD TO WAKE!"

Borgalak's enormous hands flew to his ears as she spoke. "Aagh! Stop it! Yer too bleedin' loud!" he wailed.

"HOW ELSE AM I SUPPOSED TO BE HEARD ALL THE WAY DOWN HERE? YOU CAN'T JUST SHUT A PERSON IN YOUR DUNGEON THEN WONDER WHEN THEY CALL FOR HELP. ARE YOU COMPLETELY STUPID?"

The orc was staggering at the volume of her words, tears of pain leaking from his eyes. "Stop it! 'Ow's yer doin' that? Yer don't 'ave yore staff!"

"I AM A GREAT WITCH, YOU SILLY FOOL. NOW, YOU RUN ALONG AND TELL THAT USELESS IDIOT YOU BEND AND SCRAPE TO THAT I DEMAND IMPROVED ACCOMODATIONS! WHAT'S MORE, IF HE DOESN'T SUPPLY THEM IN THE NEXT HALF HOUR..."

She took a deep breath and prepared to shout...

"...**I'LL MAKE EVERY LAST PERSON IN THIS SAD EXCUSE FOR A BUILDING AS DEAF AS A POST BY THE END OF THE DAY!"**

Borgalak screeched in agony and ran pell-mell down the gloomy corridor, up the stairwell and out of sight.

There. That was a job well done.

Very pleased with herself, Augusta relaxed casually on her makeshift bed and waited for Saruman to send someone down with the order to free her.

And waited.

And waited.

One hour later, she was still waiting. What the devil was the man up to? Had she not threatened to destroy the eardrums of every available creature within a two hundred yard radius?

Entirely fed up with her shabby treatment, the furious witch decided it was time to open her mouth again.

"I KNOW YOU'RE UP THERE, YOU WRETCH OF A WIZARD! AND I KNOW VERY WELL THAT YOU CAN HEAR ME! IF YOU DON'T HAVE ME REMOVED FROM THIS AWFUL PLACE TOUTE SUITE, I'LL MAKE YOU REGRET IT!"

Five minutes later, another orc came barrelling down the corridor. But it wasn't Borgalak...

It was her old friend Grodek.

"WHAT, HAVEN'T THEY KILLED YOU YET, YOU MISERABLE COWARD? I CAN HEAR THOSE WARGS YOU'RE SO FOND OF ALL THE WAY DOWN HERE. THEY SEEM TO BE RATHER DESPERATE TO TAKE A CHUNK OUT OF YOU, IF THOSE HOWLS ARE ANYTHING TO GO BY."

And it was true. The vicious creatures had been howling non-stop since she'd cast her handy _Sonorus_. Must be the sensitive hearing most animals boasted...

"Ye've ta stop that racket, yer old bat! Master won't stand fer it much longer! Borgalak refuses ta come down 'ere anymore; yore driving all the Uruk-hai mad; not ta mention the bleedin' wargs."

Excellent news!

He clamped his hands over his ears as she opened her mouth again.

"IF YOUR SORRY EXCUSE FOR A MASTER WANTS ME TO BE QUIET, HE NEED ONLY RELEASE ME AND HAND ME BACK MY WAND. I'LL BE MORE THAN HAPPY TO LEAVE THIS BLIGHT ON THE LANDSCAPE BEHIND ME AND BE ON MY MERRY WAY."

"Stop it! Bleedin' eck, 'as yer lost yer stupid 'ead? Ol' Saruman's never gonna let a Witch go prancin' around Middle Earth! 'Specially not one as ravin' mad as yoreself! He'll throw yer ta the wargs first!"

Did he just call her stupid? And _raving mad_?

Well, that just wasn't cricket, as the Muggles would say (forty years ago)...

"I WILL _NOT_ BE QUIET, MY GOOD FELLOW!" she snapped, furious at the slight on her sanity. "AND WHAT'S MORE, I WILL CONTINUE TO _NOT BE QUIET _FOR AS LONG AS THAT WASTE OF OXYGEN YOU CALL A WIZARD KEEPS ME COOPED UP DOWN HERE! NOW TURN ABOUT AND FIND THE KEYS FOR THIS HORRIBLE PLACE BEFORE I LET EVERYONE KNOW JUST HOW MUCH YOU BEGGED FOR A DECENT WASH!"

It was a complete lie, of course, and they both knew it. But Grodek was nonetheless very reluctant to let his peers think he'd been walking about the Wizard's Vale, begging every old woman he met for a bar of soap and a sponge.

He fled.

And she only had to wait fifteen minutes to see him returning with a very reluctant Borgalak and a nice set of keys.

Smiling, she stood up, brushed down her coat, positioned her hat and hobbled to the cell door. The big orc had a rag in his hand, probably meant to be stuffed in her mouth.

"DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT TRYING TO PUT THAT DISGUSTING ARTICLE IN MY MOUTH, MY GOOD FELLOW, OR I'LL SCREAM LIKE A NEWBORN CHILD!"

Borgalak was doing some screaming of his own as she spoke and he abandoned his attempts to silence her with the rag.

He ripped it in two and stuffed it in his own ears instead.

Ah, a wise move. Now, where was that idiot wizard?

She was pulled out the cell and frog-marched down the corridor. The stairs gave her ankle some bother, but she bit her lip and took it like a Longbottom. It wouldn't do to let these ghastly creatures think she was weak, after all!

Up, up, up the stairs they went until finally, they reached the landing with the ebony doors leading to Saruman's chamber. She made a move towards it, but was pulled roughly back and forced to climb the next flight.

"Oh no, Witchy. Yore goin' all the way ta the top," said Borgalak smugly, pointing at the roof.

Her eyes followed his finger and the disbelieving matriarch saw flight after flight of spiralling stairs stretching several hundred feet ahead.

There was no question about it: she'd never make it that far.

"I MOST CERTAINLY WILL NOT DRAG MYSELF UP THAT RIDICULOUS STAIRCASE, YOU IDIOT! NOT UNLESS YOU HAVE ACCESS TO AN ELEVATOR OF SOME DESCRIPTION."

But Borgalak only smirked, looking utterly ridiculous with his beady eyes, sharp yellow teeth and bits of cloth sticking out of his ears. He grabbed her arm and shoved her up the next flight of stairs.

And the next.

And the next.

In the end, she just couldn't climb any more. Her breath came in short gasps, sweat poured down her face and her knees finally gave out, forcing a grinning Borgalak to throw her over his shoulders again and carry her the rest of the way.

At least she was too tired to worry about the stench from his backside this time...

It was a full half an hour later before they reached the end of the staircase. Her guard pulled them through a narrow opening onto a round, flat precipice before dumping her on the ground.

"Yore new accommodation, me Lady," he smirked before disappearing back through the gap and sealing it.

And Augusta, far too exhausted to explore, fainted.

**XXX**

Several days passed while the Longbottom matriarch wallowed on the flat ledge at the pinnacle of the tower. The infuriated grandmother had spent hours looking for an exit off her very effective prison, with no success. She couldn't recall how she'd made it passed the tenth flight (having been too occupied with the important business of simply breathing) so had no idea where to find a door. To make matters worse, when she'd woken up from her faint that first day, it had been raining - and had continued to do so for many hours. The chilly water had made her shiver violently, for there was no roof on the blasted platform and she was completely at the mercy of the elements.

Worse still, she had lost her voice …

Saruman would pay for this outrage!

At least the last two days had been dry. Her coat had (finally) dried up and afforded some protection against the biting wind which now tugged at her hair violently. Strands of it were sticking out everywhere and she knew she must look an absolute fright.

Thank goodness Lottie couldn't see her now. The beautician would die of heart failure!

Come to think of it, if she had a mirror, she might die of heart failure herself.

She thought of her grandson often as the hours passed slowly by (there was little else to do). She wondered if he was having as much fun as she was, stranded several hundred feet above a landscape scarred with deep furrows that belched smoke and ash every minute of the day. The wind kept blowing the clouds of smoke in her direction (of course) and she had never felt so filthy in all her life.

When she got her hands on that boy...

He, of course, was probably out having a whale of a time with his nice Australian friends; hunting down Death Eaters by day and drinking himself senseless at night. Teenagers! In her day, spending every last hour in a drunk-infested pub was frowned upon.

And getting blitzed had a completely different meaning, what with that Muggle maniac chucking bombs on the Brits every five minutes.

When she found her wayward ward, she would be marching him back to the nearest Ministry offices and having him transported straight into Azkaban for his foolish behaviour.

Much to Augusta's annoyance, Saruman began to pay daily visits to the roof ledge (without her wand), usually demanding that she give him the secrets of her 'staff'.

"I don't think so, you insufferable bully," was her standard reply. Sometimes she varied it with "Certainly not," or "Kindly expire!".

Yesterday, she had been so fed up with his persistent haranguing and arrogant smirk that she'd actually told him to "Sod off and die."

Normally, she wouldn't dream of abusing the Queen's English in such a manner (even to a twit like Saruman), but the confines of her environment and the lack of activity had forced her to speak rashly. Anyway, it was one of her grandson's favourites and he would smile to think of her using it.

Augusta frowned. Why on earth was she thinking so charitably of the boy when his careless actions had gotten her into this mess in the first place?

No matter. She was awaiting the lizard wizard's daily visit to crow at her misfortune any minute now and didn't have time to dwell on the (dwindling) affection she felt for her charge. In fact, the man was late, which was a nuisance, because she desperately had to answer nature's call and couldn't hold it in much longer (she'd been reduced to transfiguring her beloved Spot into a receptacle of sorts and flinging her waste over the side of the tower - the effort of such a powerful burst of wandless magic had almost singed her finger off).

What the deuce was he doing?

She took a cautious peek over the eastern edge of the ledge to the balcony below. Hundreds of orcs and uruk-hai had been marching around the Ring of Isengard all day. But now that she looked closer, she could see a small company of men, perhaps a hundred-strong standing before the balcony and gazing up at it. What was that all about?

A tall figure in white stepped out onto the balcony and moved to the railing.

Saruman.

Huffing in annoyance, the elderly witch glared at the top of his head.

What did he mean by not showing up to interrogate her when he was supposed to? If he wanted to be a great leader, he would need to work on his timekeeping!

Enough was enough! Extremely irritated that he'd deprived her of the only entertainment of her day (annoying him) she did the only thing that came to mind ...

Five minutes later, just as the not-so-white wizard was getting into the full swing of his egomaniacal oration for the adoring crowds, a very angry 'guest' hung over the eastern ledge of the Tower of Orthanc with a very full bowl of steaming liquid. Tipping it over, Augusta watched with enormous satisfaction as the former contents of her bladder fell several hundred feet to the balcony below, drenching the wizard from head to toe.

His yell of outrage was almost as loud as her Sonorus-enhanced voice had been a few days before and she gave him a cheery wave as he brandished his staff in her direction.

That would teach the beggar to ignore her!

Feeling rather pleased with herself (and placing the blame for her uncharacteristic immaturity firmly at the feet of the so-called wizard who was treating her so abominably), Augusta retreated back to the safety of the pinnacles, where she leaned against one and marvelled at the beauty of revenge ...

Saruman did not come to visit her that day or the next and Augusta was beginning to get a little concerned. She had finished the last of her apples that morning, which contained the only available fluid (the bothersome wizard had stopped sending up water after his impromptu shower two days ago), and now she only had a small crust of her loaf left.

What was she going to do? Her wand was out of reach, her grandson was even further away (tearing a swathe of terror through enemy ranks, no doubt), and she had been stranded at the top of this stupid tower by a petulant wizard with a Voldemort-complex.

It was all too irritating for words!

The cold night air bit into her fingers and she shoved them in her coat pocket. Oh, for pity's sake! She'd only just fully recovered her voice, and now she was going to lose it again - if she didn't die of thirst before that. She may be able to cast a few handy wandless spells, but even Augusta Longbottom couldn't make water flow from her finger!

And that was _really _beginning to vex her ...

A stronger blast of wind blew another cloud of filthy smoke from the furnaces below into her face and she coughed violently.

That was it! Enough!

Furious at the callous treatment by the hook-nosed horror from hell, she raised herself up and cast another Sonorus.

"CAN YOU HEAR ME, YOU IGNORANT SWINE?"

No answer.

Beyond caring if she got a response, the furious grandmother gave it hell for leather and spent the next ten minutes announcing to all and sundry exactly what she thought of her deplorable host.

"... NO WATER, NO LOO, NO WARM BED! I WILL REPORT YOU TO THE AUSTRALIAN MINISTRY OF MAGIC _AND_ THE TOURIST INFORMATION BOARD WHEN I GET OUT OF HERE, YOU MISERABLE SCOUNDREL!"

The wargs were howling again. Good! She hoped they foamed at the mouth and ate their stupid handlers!

"AS FOR YOUR DUBIOUS POWERS AS A WIZARD, YOU'RE A FRAUD AND A CHARLATAN! ANY MUGGLE MAGICIAN CAN MAKE A BODY LEVITATE WITHOUT TOO MUCH EFFORT - AND THEY USUALLY DO A BETTER JOB OF IT!"

What was that?

Augusta closed her mouth to strain her ears. There was a faint screech in the distance. She walked around the ledge, head tilted downwards to determine whether or not it was the blasted orcs chugging their way up the staircase again to drag her somewhere else (or throw her off the tower), but the directionality was all wrong. The screech came again, from higher up.

Higher up? Than her? Impossible! Unless it was a bird of some sort.

She searched the skies as the balcony doors below banged open. Sure enough, from the north, came the figure of a huge bird, speeding towards the tower.

Speeding towards _her!_

Rather alarmed at the sight of the creature (growing ever more enormous the closer it came), Augusta sought a place to hide.

Which was pointless, of course.

"GO AWAY!" she yelled in her Sonorus-enhanced voice. She had neither the time nor the inclination to bird-watch.

But the creature grew closer and closer (and bigger and bigger), despite her yells. A bright flash of light from down below sped towards it and it swerved to avoid being hit.

Which, she suddenly realised, was very encouraging ...

Only Saruman could have made that flash, and if _he_ was aiming for the bird, it must be his enemy.

Which, by default, made it her friend!

"OVER HERE!" she cried, waving her hands wildly in the air to attract the bird's attention. "I SAY, OVER HERE!"

The bird swooped over the tower and circled it, gazing down at her with unmistakable intelligence.

"WELL, WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? IF YOU WANT TO RESCUE ME FROM THAT IDIOT SARUMAN, NOW'S THE TIME TO DO IT!"

It seemed to agree. Bright, white flashes were careening all over the sky now and it flew down to the temporary haven of the ledge, where, to Augusta's absolute astonishment, it began to talk.

"You are no Man."

Recovering from her little shock, she whispered "_Quietus_" (which still came out as a roar) and her voice resumed its natural volume.

"Of course I'm not a man! What an odd thing to say! Are you here to rescue me or to chat?"

The bird scrutinised her carefully and she felt almost uncomfortable under its keen gaze.

"I am Gwaihir, Windlord of the Eagles. I was sent by the Valar to seek a Wizard, not a woman."

"Well, I don't mean to be rude, but it seems to me that the only wizard around here is none too pleased to see you! I hope you're not a friend of that idiot Saruman's, because if you are, you can jolly well take off again!"

"Friend of Saruman? Nay, Lady. The White Wizard is fallen from the Order. He will never be friend to the likes of me again. I received information that a Wizard from another world may be lost in Middle Earth and I seek him urgently."

Well, he could only mean her, surely? She may not be a wizard, but she was certainly lost in this strange world of magical Australia.

"I think you must be mistaken, my good fellow. It's not a wizard you're looking for: it's a witch - and here I am! Now, if you don't mind awfully, it is rather cold up here and those stupid orcs will no doubt be rushing up the stairwell as we speak. May we please leave?"

"A Witch?"

She huffed impatiently. Oh really! Why did everyone keep saying it like they'd never heard of a witch before? It really was too irritating for words!

"Very well, Witch. You are no Man, but I accept your claim to such powers, for if you were not as you say, I would not have heard your magical cries from distant mountains. That you were able to moderate your voice without the use of a staff supports this. Climb upon my back and I shall bear you safely to the Elven haven of Imladris, as the Valar commanded."

"Oh, wonderful! But before we leave, I wonder if I couldn't ask you a small favour?"

**XXX**

Not one minute later, Augusta found herself deposited on the balcony of Saruman's chamber as Gwaihir circled the tower impatiently.

"Make haste, my Lady! We cannot tarry here long."

"Don't fuss, young ma ..."

Oh. She couldn't call him 'young man', could she?

"Just a moment. I'm not leaving without my wand!" she hissed.

The balcony doors were open, no doubt abandoned by Saruman in his mad dash for the pinnacle. Augusta slipped into the chamber, eyes searching for any sign of her hated host, but he was not there. She flitted from column to column, making for the table near the dais. It was the only place she knew of that he could have kept it. Upon reaching her goal, she rifled through the objects on the top but found no sign of her beloved holly wand.

Botheration! Where the deuce was it?

"Looking for this?" trilled a dangerously silky voice behind her.

She whirled around and spotted Saruman smirking at her from the doorway. He waved her wand carelessly around.

"You do not think I would be foolish enough to leave such a valuable object in the open for any fool to find?"

Augusta glowered at him.

"Such a precious thing does not belong in the hands of a mere woman. Your mind is not is not strong enough to harness its arts. It is mine now."

He walked slowly towards her - and she waited.

"Mine to use as I please. To achieve that which I have long desired."

Might that be a decent haircut? The elderly witch waited patiently as the arrogant fool walked ever nearer. Just a little closer ...

"With my staff and your stick, I will have the power to find the Ring and overthrow the Dark Lord Sauron. Middle Earth will be mine!"

Find the ring? Was the posturing dandy shopping for jewellery? Idiot!

He came closer still, a mere twelve feet away now ...

"For I am no longer Saruman the White! Nay! I am greater than them all! You see before you now Saruman of Many Colours, simple woman - and you will reveal to me the secrets of your staff or I will destroy you!"

Now!

"_Accio_ wand!" cried Augusta, holding out her hand and snatching it deftly from the air when it was torn from Saruman's grasp.

The man was stunned. "Impossible! It is not possible to use magic without your staff."

"Oh, for heaven's sake. I've been yelling at the top of my lungs on several occasions for the past few days without the aid of my wand, or hadn't you noticed? The question is, do you have the same talent? _Accio_ _staff!_"

Unfortunately, the mad wizard had been expecting such a trick and grasped onto it with both hands, stilling its flight towards the equally mad granny at the dais.

No matter, he couldn't do two things at once.

Augusta, filled with the rush of being united with her wand - and still fuming at Saruman's outrageously chauvinistic comments - pointed it at his chest.

"_Engorgio_!"

The deluded fool was still too busy grasping his cumbersome wand to ward the spell off and it hit him square in the chest. Ten seconds later, he was the not-so-proud owner of a fabulous pair of double D's.

"Oh, would you look at that! You've grown a pair of bosoms that any respectable girl would be proud of! Tell me, is it interfering with your ability to harness the power of your staff yet?" she growled mockingly.

Saruman was puce with anger. His filthy robe was stretched across his bulging chest, fit to burst at the seems.

"Remove this curse immediately!" he roared.

"I don't think so. You look rather fetching, you know. Quite an improvement."

He aimed his staff at her and a burst of energy leapt from it, but she conjured a quick Shield and it rebounded backwards, sending him flying through the chamber.

Now the tables were turned and Augusta Longbottom was enjoying it immensely. She walked towards him and fired another spell while he lay stunned and bleeding on the floor. Perhaps it wasn't fair to kick a dog when it was down, but she could live with it just this once.

Her spell hit him and his skin turned a very unflattering shade of green.

Now for the hair.

Five seconds later, it was sunshine yellow (like her kitchen - a very fetching shade). Another spell, and his beard was as orange as a Weasley's head.

Splendid work! Now he really _was_ Saruman of Many Colours!

Or rather, Sarum_anna_ of Many Colours.

Just as he was beginning to rouse, she heard the stomping of feet on the stairwell. No doubt the imbecilic idiots that passed themselves off as guards. Her theory was confirmed by their guttural yells. With a swift wave of Augusta's wand, the doors sealed themselves shut with a loud bang, though that wouldn't hold them forever against a horde of very determined orcs and uruk-hai.

Botheration! It looked like the fun was over. Time to go.

But before she did, she strolled over to the groggy wizard and pushed him back down with her foot.

"The next time we meet, my friend, I expect you to have a deal more respect for the fairer sex. If you don't, I won't hesitate to use the counter spell to this -"

She tapped his springy chest with the toe of her shoe.

"- on this."

She stomped on his family jewels with her sensibly heeled shoes and he gave a groan of absolute, exquisite agony before passing out completely.

Thoroughly satisfied with her work, she left the unconscious wizard to his horde of screaming orcs and walked casually to the window. She fired a bolt of blue light into the air and smiled in approval as the very nice eagle came soaring down. Gwaihir landed on the balcony and she clambered aboard.

"Well, then. Job done. Time to go, my fine-feathered friend - and do try to mind the treetops. I've had a bad enough hair day as it is!"

"As you wish, my Lady."

With that, he rose gracefully into the air and through the clouds of filthy smoke until they reached the dizzy heights of clean, fresh, Saruman-free air.

Augusta Longbottom was off to see the (house) elves!

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Author's Note:_ Next: Things get serious for Neville and Molly at Parth Galen as the Fellowship runs into trouble…

Kara's Aunty ;)


	12. We're off to see the Wizard!

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**Not Quite A Maia**

**Chapter 12**

* * *

_Third Age: 26__th__-30th February_

_Amon Hen_

"Find the Halflings. Secure the Witch. Kill the others."

Neville's blood froze in his already chilly veins as the orcs raced down the hill in their haste to obey the Nazgûl's command. Their ugly roars of glee rebounded through the morning air, and he prayed the Fellowship would hold them off until either he returned or Molly took care of them.

What the ruddy hell did it want with Molly anyway? And how the ruddy hell did it know she was a witch? The answer came to him immediately: the Patronus!

The Nazgûl walked slowly towards him, raising a long black sword and the teenager fought against the grip of fear that threatened to consume him. Steeling himself for battle, he moved to the left, arcing away from the creature and on to the more even terrain offered at the summit of Amon Hen. He held the Sword of Gryffindor in two hands, ready to lift it in defence at the Nazgûl's first strike.

"What do you want with her?" he asked, his voice shaking as the dark creature followed him across the flatter surface.

A low hiss. "You need not concern yourself with that, child."

Child? Despite the waves of evil the Nazgûl emitted, Neville frowned slightly in irritation. What did it mean, _child_? He was of age!

It took its first swing with its sword and he jumped back, feeling the swish of air as it missed his abdomen by inches.

"Sorry, but I beg to differ. I concern myself with it very much. What do you want with Molly?"

Another swipe of the Nazgûl's sword, but this time he managed a clumsy block.

"It is of no matter to you, for you will be dead."

Dead? Not ruddy well likely! Gran would kill him if he popped his clogs in some foreign land!

The thought of Augusta Longbottom's ire was enough to make him pull himself a little straighter and take some sort of action against his hissing opponent. He feinted with a step to the left before drawing back quickly and thrusting his sword to the right of the Nazgûl's chest, using the weight of his upper body to create momentum. The silver blade cut through the air, but not through the Nazgûl. A horrible rasp rent through the morning air and he knew it was laughing at him.

Git.

Okay, so he wasn't exactly Daffyd the Dastardly (who, three hundred years earlier, had single-handedly slain forty wizards with his enchanted sword during the Battle of Llandidrydumpfl and then - as legend had it - bedded all their widows in a week of what Gran would call 'unregulated fornication') or even Filibert the Fortunate (who made headline news during the first war with Voldemort when, after losing his wand to a Death Eater, he still managed to fend him off by shoving his Muggle-born wife's wooden spoon up the man's left nostril - handle first. The Death Eater died instantly).

"You are ill at ease with your sword, child," it sneered.

It was taunting him, and the teenager couldn't really blame it. He was bloody useless with a sword. But he couldn't use his wand at the moment either, what with all that dark malice...

Wait a minute - it might feel like a Dementor, but it wasn't really _acting _like one. Dementors didn't need swords and words, they just went straight for the kill (or kiss). But the Nazgûl wasn't making any sort of romantic overtures (thankfully), despite the fact that it was obviously off its rocker (one of Dean's favourite Muggle sayings which he'd adopted). In fact, for all the doom and gloom its proximity afforded, it still needed a weapon to wound him.

With this heartening thought, the young wizard began to fight against the pall of fear threatening to envelop him.

"No, I'm ill at ease with _you_, actually," he replied sarcastically. "Don't suppose there's any chance of you letting me shove a wooden spoon up your left nostril?"

It answered with another vicious lunge which he only just managed to dodge.

Perhaps baiting it wasn't such a good idea?

He blocked another thrust with a twist of his wrist, the clash of the Nazgûl's weapon and the Sword of Gryffindor ringing loudly in his ears as they locked. The dark cowl of the Black Rider ventured mockingly over the unholy union of swords as it hissed at him menacingly. Neville only managed to avoid what was surely the worst case of halitosis in _any_ world by ducking to the right. He pulled the Sword of Gryffindor with him and used the momentum of his sudden turn to swing it behind the Nazgûl and take a swipe at its back. A rip of cloth greeted his ears and he stumbled backwards as the creature swivelled around in anger.

"So, you think yourself a match for one of the Nine, boy?" it rasped harshly. "Foolish child! If you pierce my form with your blade, it will do no harm. For I am already dead - yet not. There can be no pain you inflict that I cannot already feel. Surrender yourself willingly and I will allow you the mercy of a swift death by sword. If you do not..."

The creature drew a short dagger from its belt and waved it maliciously before the sweating teenager's face.

"...then you shall know the agony of the slaves of Mordor. Choose wisely!"

Neville did. Death by complete and utter nutter (he mentally thanked his Gran for the catchy turn of phrase), or death by Maniac from Mordor?

"Tempting," he gasped, trying to fend off the Nazgûl as it advanced again, swinging with its sword and swiping with the dagger. "But I'll have to decline your kind offer, if it's all the same to you." They danced around the field for several minutes, locked in battle.

Or rather, the Nazgûl danced; Neville lumbered around swinging wildly with his weapon, trying to keep it at bay while not falling on his arse. He was just beginning to wish he'd spent more time learning to master his sword, as opposed to his wand, when a cry distracted him.

"Neville! Do not let it touch you with the dagger - it is poisoned!"

Aragorn's voice carried across to his ears from the other side of the hill and he let his attention be drawn by it for a split second - which was enough for the Black Rider to pierce his sword arm.

Fortunately, it wasn't with the poisoned dagger. Yet the teenager still yelled in agony as his opponent's long, black sword blade sliced through muscle and sinew, causing him to release his grasp on the Sword of Gryffindor. He stumbled backwards and tripped on the lower step of the Seat of Seeing, not feeling anything other than the red hot pain that lanced through his arm. Aragorn yelled at him to move and when the Nazgûl's heavy clanking boots drew nearer, he realised why.

Fighting to remain conscious through the fog of pain and nausea, he rolled away from the step just before a heavy blade crashed into it, sending sparks flying through the air. Gripping his left hand over the ugly, dripping wound on his right arm, he pulled himself shakily to his feet and saw it turn slowly towards him. Evil intent fairly flowed from it as it advanced threateningly and lunged towards his chest with its weapon.

"Move away, Neville!" cried Aragorn as he raced across the hilltop towards him.

Stupid thing to say, really. He wasn't exactly going to stand there and let it finish him off! Neville jumped to the right out of harm's way, wincing as he jarred his wound on landing. "Get to the others!" he yelled at the loping ranger. "It's sent orcs after the hobbits and Molly!"

Spying his weapon, he lunged for the Sword of Gryffindor as the Nazgûl came up behind him, but his left hand was slick from the blood that was flowing freely from his arm. The sword slipped from his grasp once more and he had to duck to avoid being beheaded from behind. Unfortunately, the sudden movement, coupled with the ever-increasing loss of blood made him dizzy and he toppled over a few feet away from the sword...

"Now die, foolish child!" came the triumphant hiss of the creature at his back. Neville heard the swoop of the Nazgûl's weapon before he could see it and had to roll over quickly in order to avoid the death blow.

"That was your last stroke of fortune, boy. Your friend will never make it to your side in time to prevent your demise."

It loomed over the fallen teenager victoriously, poised to raise its sword while Neville grappled wildly in the grass for his silver blade.

"Do you have any last words for me to share with the Man before I slay him too?"

Neville was feeling increasingly light-headed as his right arm turned ever more crimson and his left flailed about uselessly for Gryffindor's sword. Where the bloody hell was it?

"No?" it mocked. "Very well, child."

It raised its arms and the black blade rose with them.

"NEVILLE!" screamed Aragorn from thirty feet away.

But the teenager had just found his own sword, and his mad grappling over the grass had wiped most of the blood from his hand...

As the Sword of Gryffindor came to rest once more in his palm, he gripped it tightly and with one mighty swing, thrust it into the crowing Black Rider's belly.

A shriek of unimaginable disbelief rent the air as the Nazgûl began to smoulder from the abdomen outwards. Its black robe caught fire and it wailed in agony as the venom of Salazar Slytherin's basilisk flowed through its veins. It doubled over and fell to the ground just as Aragorn reached the young wizard's side and pulled him clear of it. They watched in horrified fascination as it jerked and twisted violently on the grass for almost a minute before black flames finally consumed it. Soon, all that remained of the former King of Men was a burning corpse, that twitched every two or three seconds, before exploding into a cloud of ash.

And so it was that the Nine Riders became Eight.

And Neville would have been absolutely delighted if he wasn't too busy chucking his guts up. It seemed that Northern Ireland was not predisposed to leniency after all...

"Lay still for a moment, young Wizard while I bind your wound," said a clearly relieved and very astonished Aragorn.

"Can't," croaked Neville. "Its soldiers are after Molly and the hobbits."

The ranger frowned as he pulled a strip of cloth from his pack. "That it seeks the Hobbits is clear. But Lady Molly?"

Sitting up rather inelegantly, Neville used a shaky left hand to pull his (thankfully) intact wand from its holster.

"This is no time for magic, my young friend. We must bind your wound and move quickly to aid the others. Save you arts for the flight down the hill."

It was no use explaining what he was about to do to the ranger; they didn't have time. Pointing his wand at the ugly gash on his right arm, he mumbled the only first-aid spell he knew. "_Episkey_." The deep gash glowed briefly, then closed over.

"A most useful spell, young Wizard," declared Aragorn, impressed despite the gravity of their situation.

Neville was busy releasing his knapsack from his back, his stiff arms hindering his progress. The ranger saw his discomfort and assisted the teenager, and soon it was free. He opened it and rifled through the contents for the flask of Miruvor Cirdan had gifted them with back at the Grey Havens. Upon finding it, he took a deep draught and immediately felt the benefits of the sparkling liquid. His head cleared and his stomach settled.

"We have to go," Neville said, packing the flask back into his bag before shouldering it once more.

The words had barely left his lips when a loud, deep blast resounded across Parth Galen...

"The horn of Boromir!" cried Aragorn. "He is in need!"

"Let's go!" Neville shouted, taking off at a galloping pace in the direction of the sound echoing from the Horn of Gondor.

They rushed down the hill on the west side of the river, following the deep-throated call of the Horn of Gondor as they descended the wooded slopes. Cries of orcs, loud and shrill as they fought their friends, rang through their ears and suddenly the blare of the horn ceased.

Neville picked up his pace. No doubt he should be lying down somewhere trying to recover his strength after losing so much blood - Molly would have insisted on it, were she here - but he was now fuelled by the grace of Cirdan's Miruvor so, brandishing his wand in his tender, but mercifully healed arm, he raced on. All he could think about was running faster, _faster_ if he were to reach Boromir, Molly and the hobbits on time. But the cries of battle died the closer they drew to where the last blare of the horn had come from. As the wizard and the ranger reached the last slope at the foot of the hill and turned left, they had to strain their ears to hear the faint cries, and then they were gone altogether.

Aragorn drew his shimmering sword and cried 'Elendil! Elendil!", before crashing through the remaining trees.

Neville, thinking it was some sort of tradition in Middle Earth to declare allegiance before running into battle, gripped his wand and raised it too, yelling "Gryffindor!" as he stormed after his friend.

They ran for almost a mile without catching sight of any more orcs. Which was odd. Where the ruddy hell were they?

"You don't think they've found Frodo and left, do you?" he wheezed behind Aragorn. The Dúnedain hadn't even so much as broken into a sweat as they galloped through the trees. Neville wondered idly if he worked out or something.

"Let us hope not. If the Ring-bearer has been captured and these Orcs make for Mordor, the quest has failed!"

Mordor! If the hobbits were being carted off to Mordor, then Sauron would get the Ring! Middle Earth would fall.

He would have failed in his duty.

Determination gripped him as the awful possibility of a dark age for his friends and their families became an ever-increasing reality, and a fresh burst of energy carried Neville almost to Aragorn's side as they flew through the woods. They came bursting out from the trees and into a little glade not far from the lake...

And found Boromir.

"NO!" yelled Neville in horror as they spotted the man of Gondor sitting slumped by a tree on the other side of the glade. Bodies of orcs were scattered around the clearing, and many of their filthy corpses lay near the feet of their fallen friend. They rushed over to him and the teenager fell to his knees.

"Boromir! Boromir! What the ruddy hell have they done to you?"

Several black shafts had pierced the man's chest. Blood flowed freely and profusely down it. His face was waxy and pale, sweat dripped down his neck to mingle with the bright red fluid on his tunic. He turned his head and smiled weakly at the wizard.

"It seems...my friend...that ev...even the mighty fall, in the end."

Aragorn was assessing the damage with his healer's eye. The ranger gingerly tore the tunic around the entry wound, but even the slight ministration was enough to cause Boromir pain and he gasped weakly.

"Nay, Aragorn. It...is too late for me."

"No! No it bloody well is not!" cried Neville, devastated at the thought of losing his moody friend. "I can Summon the arrows out and heal the wounds with the same spell I used on my arm."

"Explain!" barked Aragorn in full Madam Pomfrey mode.

"I'll basically summon them out with my wand," he replied, raising his wand to point at the long shafts.

"Nay! You cannot. It will tear the wounds further. He has lost too much blood already and cannot afford to lose more, unless your arts can quickly replace it."

Neville knew the truth of it even as Aragorn spoke the words. He would not be able to replace the blood with an Episkey, merely close the wounds as he had done with his own. And he was not an accomplished medi-wizard either. Molly may have packed some Blood Replenishing potion in her first-aid kit though...

"Molly! Molly might have something we can replace it with," he said eagerly, looking at Aragorn hopefully.

"The Lady Molly has...has been taken with...with Merry and Pippin," Boromir gasped. "I could not stop it...there were too many of the Enemy. For...forgive me, my friends. I have…failed you."

"Nay, Boromir. You have not failed us. You have fought bravely!" declared Aragorn vehemently.

Boromir seemed to collect his strength for the effort of further speech and his voice was admirably more steady as he faced the would-be king of his land.

"The Orcs were numerous, but we fought them all. Merry and Pippin...battled bravely against a much larger enemy. I am proud to call them brothers-in-arms." He took a shaky breath before continuing. "Lady Molly slew many with magic that I have never before seen in my life! She was wondrous, Aragorn, Neville! But...there were simply too many. We were surrounded on all sides and...an Orc gained ground behind her, near enough to slip a cloth over her head. It...was enough to...distract her and allow...allow them to capture her staff. They know she is a Witch! I do not know how, but they...know. They bound her arms and carried her off with the little ones…"

"I don't understand," said Neville. "Why didn't she just use the Light of Varda to disable them?"

Boromir smiled weakly, apologetically. "There was...no time to un...unbutton her mantle. The battle was over in...a very short time."

The teenager reeled with shock. "Then she's off to Mordor with the hobbits," he mumbled in disbelief.

A clammy hand grasped his own and he looked up to see the Gondorian gazing at him, regret in his deep grey eyes. "Nay, not...Mordor. I heard the leader shouting. They take them to Isengard. Lady Molly is to be executed by Saruman himself for...her great affront to him."

Isengard?

"But we've never even met Saruman! What the bloody hell is that all about? I thought they knew she was a witch because of the Patronus! But Isengard?"

"Did you meet anyone other than Cirdan on your journey from the Grey Havens," asked Aragorn, puzzled.

"Except that bunch of orcs from Moria at the border of Lothlórien, no."

"Then it is a puzzle - but one for another time. Boromir, what of Frodo? Have you seen aught of the Ring-bearer or Sam?"

Boromir was growing weaker with every passing second, his breathing was becoming more laboured and there was a blue tinge to his lips. Neville wanted to scream at the unfairness of it.

"Not since...I spoke with him in the woods earlier. You must...know, Aragorn, that I...I went to him to convince him to bring the weapon to my City, but...he refused. I grew...angry. The dark arts of the Ring were working upon me and...I wanted to take it from him!"

The effort of speaking and the content of his revelation was clearly agitating the mortally wounded man. Aragorn laid a soothing hand on his shoulder. "Peace Boromir. Speak at peace: we will not judge you."

A loud rustling interrupted the man's confession and Neville glanced up, wand aimed, to see Legolas and Gimli crashing through the trees and into the glade. Their faces were etched in sorrow as their eyes fell upon their fallen comrade.

"I wanted...to take it from him," continued the bleeding man as he rolled his head towards Neville. "But I did not. Our talk, you see, was...not in vain, my young friend. I…realised what it was...doing to my mind and...I bade the Ring-bearer flee before it...consumed me."

His faltering gaze returned to the face of the ranger. "I know I am weak, heir of Isildur. But Neville...helped me retain my honour in my darkest hour. I do...not know where Frodo is now, but I suspect you shall not...see him until this war is ended: for good or ill. Forgive me...if I acted hastily - I meant only to...save the quest and preserve his trust in both...my people and myself. Perhaps it was selfish…"

"Nay Boromir. You are neither weak nor selfish and your honour is ever intact. Long will your people sing of your brave deeds this day!"

"I'm sorry, Boromir," whispered Neville. "I should have been quicker, I should never have left you. I should never have doubted you. I've failed you."

"That is...not true...Neville Longbottom. You have saved me from a battle greater...than what took place in this glade. A Man's honour is...greater than his life and…none have taught me this lesson better than you: a warrior Wizard...from another world. Meeting you...has been one of the keenest joys my soul has known. Do not regret that...which you cannot change, for even the greatest of Istari cannot fight the...inevitability of fate. Know that I will always count you...as the truest of friends, young Wizard."

Tears flowed freely down the teenager's face as he held the man's hand and bowed his head to it in a mark of respect.

"Farewell, Aragorn! Go to Minas Tirith and save my people. I have failed."

"Nay!" said Aragorn, taking his other hand and kissing his brow. "You have conquered. Few have gained such a victory. Be at peace! Minas Tirith shall not fall!"

Boromir smiled.

"Which way did Frodo go?" the ranger asked the fading man urgently.

But Boromir did not speak again.

**XXX**

It was with great ceremony that they buried the Lord of Gondor. Aragorn had intended to lay Boromir in one of the elven boats and send his body over the Falls of Rauros, as there was not enough time to build a cairn. But Neville took care of the hard labour with a wave of his wand and soon a tall, circular mound of stones graced the middle of the clearing. He transfigured an ebony coffin lined with red silk and a soft pillow from one of the larger rocks (it was, much to his shame, rather basic and - in his opinion - not good enough for his friend; but the others were too grateful to offer critique). Solemnly, the four carried his lifeless form into the cairn and paid their last respects.

Once the deed was done, they left the cairn and Neville sealed it with more rocks. He erected a few basic wards to protect it from unfriendly forces and pillagers, then conjured a shiny bronze plaque and affixed it to the face of the mound with a Permanent Sticking Charm. All four stepped back and bowed their heads in respect as the inscription glowed, then cooled:

_Here lies Boromir, Lord of Gondor._

_Son, Brother, Warrior and Friend_

_Whose Life was brief: Whose Honour is eternal_

"'Tis a fitting sentiment for a Lord of Men," stated Gimli firmly.

"Indeed," said Legolas sadly. "It is a fitting sentiment for a Lord of any race."

"You have done well, young Wizard," said Aragorn kindly as he laid a sympathetic hand on the teenager's shoulder.

Neville shook his head. "If I'd done well, he'd be alive and Molly and the hobbits would be safe." He fingered the Horn of Gondor, which he'd repaired and held on to afterwards, intending to hand it over to Boromir's next of kin. Aragorn said it was a treasured heirloom passed from eldest son to eldest son in the Steward's line, and he believed it should be returned to its home.

Though, Boromir's brother was the eldest son now...

He fought to control his roiling emotions.

Aragorn sighed. "Do not allow yourself to wallow in sadness, son of Longbottom. I know you feel his passing keenly, but Boromir was friend to us all. Although his death is a serious blow to our hearts, we must bury our pain for the present and concentrate on recovering our other friends. They too are in need of our aid and your arts will be required if we are to rescue them."

The ranger made a lot of sense, and Neville, being no stranger to burying friends, shook himself from his sorrow. There would be time to grieve later. Before that happened, though, there were others who needed his help.

And orcs to wreak his vengeance upon...

Raising his head, he gave a firm nod to the ranger who smiled in appreciation.

When the funeral of Gondor's noblest son was over, man, elf, dwarf and wizard debated the next course of action. Should they follow Molly and the younger hobbits, or keep searching for Frodo, who had fled to Merlin knew where. And where was Sam? Neville hadn't seen the affable little gardener since they'd discovered Frodo was missing.

They made their way past the orc corpses to the camp on the lawn of Parth Galen, to see if any of the two had returned there, but there was no sign of the Ring-bearer or Sam. Aragorn noticed that two of the packs were missing: a smaller one, and the large one with all the cooking pots which belonged to the gardener. He let his gaze wander to the river and saw that one of the elven boats was gone too.

"It seems that fortune smiled brighter on Samwise than any of the other searchers," he said thoughtfully. "He appears to have located his errant master and has joined him on the other side of the river."

Neville frowned. "But that's the east bank. The only thing over there is the Emyn Muil and the road to...Mordor!"

Oh bloody hell! Frodo and Sam had given the Fellowship the slip and were off to the Black Lands on their own. What the ruddy heck were they thinking?

"We can't let them go off to Mordor by themselves!" he said in alarm. "They'll be caught and killed!"

"I do not believe so," replied Aragorn. "Hobbits are a very surprising and most resilient people."

"Aragorn, you are not thinking of allowing them to travel into danger without the protection our Fellowship affords?" asked Legolas incredulously.

The ranger let his steady grey eyes settle on the others. "Our Fellowship is sundered, my friends. Boromir has taken his road, Frodo and Sam have taken theirs. Now we must decide our own. Do we follow the Ring-bearer and Sam into Mordor, where the presence of a Man, Elf, Dwarf and Wizard will no doubt draw attention to our mission at some stage and will surely endanger the quest? Or do we trust them to steer the fates of us all and face this task alone? I have learned much of the hearts and minds of these two Hobbits and I tell you that theirs is a determination like none I have ever seen. They will not fail us. Which leaves us with Merry, Pippin and the Lady Molly. I believe they are in the more immediate danger. If they reach Isengard, Saruman will torture them with his Wizard's arts for the whereabouts of the Ring. We cannot allow that to happen."

Gimli spoke. "But Lady Molly is a Witch! She will save the Hobbits from certain death."

"But she's been separated from her wand," interjected Neville. "Saruman knows she's a witch. I've no idea how, but the Nazgûl ordered the orcs to 'secure the witch' along with the hobbits. They snuck up behind her and captured her when she was busy blasting their friends into smithereens."

"Nazgûl?" echoed Gimli in dismay, brandishing his axe and scowling fiercely at the trees, as if one of them was going to pop out for a neighbourly chat at any time.

"How do you know this?" cried Legolas simultaneously, eyebrows raised in alarm.

"Because he fought it at the top of Amon Hen not two hours since," Aragorn said, allowing himself a small smile (beaming like a proud father).

Neville flushed uncomfortably as elf and dwarf looked at him speculatively.

"And how did he fare?" enquired Gimli, addressing the ranger but staring at the teenager.

Excellent! If that wasn't an opener for a hugely embarrassing spiel about how he gave a great big girly scream when he got stabbed by the ruddy thing, or how he fell on his arse and spewed for Northern Ireland (which was now off his holiday hotspot list), then he didn't know what was. Trying to stave off the worst of it, he mumbled: "I lived. Can we go now?"

Aragorn ignored him. "He slew it with his mighty sword."

Legolas nearly fainted. "Slew? A Nazgûl? How is such a thing possible?"

"Lucky swipe," said Neville, mortified at the admiring gazes of his friends. "Now, about where we're going next..."

"There was more than mere luck involved, my friend," said Aragorn with a very McGonagall frown. "When I came upon the hill, he was locked in battle with the foul creature..."

Yeah, stumbling about like a drunk while the Nazgûl moved with the grace of a ballerina.

"...which then drew a Morgul blade from its belt..."

Elf and dwarf gasped in shock. Neville shrugged - he'd thought it was a kitchen knife.

"...and threatened to use it..."

True, he couldn't deny that.

"...but then it wounded his arm with its sword instead and he stumbled..."

Ah. That wouldn't been round about the time he'd let out the great big girly scream. He hoped nobody else had heard it.

"...but he bravely leapt to his feet and yelled for me to leave and rescue the others..."

Sort of true. He'd _staggered _to his feet like a Hog's Head regular.

"...and avoided decapitation with a well-timed duck of his head..."

Which had sent him toppling onto the grass in a fainting fit.

"...and as the Nazgûl raised its arms to slay him..."

He'd nearly filled his trousers in fright.

"...his arm found the blade of Griffadore and smote the creature down!"

Gryffindor. _Gryffindor_!

"A mighty victory! But how is it that the creature perished?"

Neville's face was flaming red as he squeaked an answer. "Um, it's impregnated with basilisk venom, which is one of the most powerful poisonous substances in my world. It'll kill anything."

"And indeed it did!" said Aragorn. "The Nazgûl was wreathed in black flame which consumed it from the inside out. A terrible thing to hear, were its cries of pain! But I am glad to have witnessed its destruction."

"It is heartening indeed to know that those evil creatures are not infallible," said Legolas. "Truly we have been blessed by your presence, young Neville. With such a weapon to hand, we now have a sturdy defence should our paths cross more of its kind."

Oh crikey! There were another _eight_ of the ruddy things! If they came across any more of them, Neville would be happy to leave the Sword of Gryffindor to the elf and let him get on with it (while he ran screaming for cover).

"Er, thanks."

Gimli gave him a resounding thwack of (presumably) admiration on the back, which robbed him of breath for a full ten seconds. "Boromir would be proud of you lad. As are we all."

"Thanks," he wheezed, not really knowing how to reply to that. "I'm, er...proud of you too."

"Whatever for?" asked the dwarf, staring at him in confusion.

Good question.

"Well, for eh...you know."

Beady brown eyes regarded him in growing mystification. "Nay lad. I do not."

"Well, for...em, all that running and er...all the fighting you did!"

"Alas," said Legolas sporting a very unhappy frown, "but we did little fighting. The Orcs were not content to remain near us when the Hobbits were still at large."

Oh.

Gimli raised his brows at Neville in a silent question.

"Well, then, I'm proud you managed to stay out of the thick of the action. Great work!"

Now Gimli scowled. "Are you implying we hid amongst the trees like cowards?"

What? That wasn't what he meant!

"No! Bloody hell, Gimli, I'm just glad that you're alright - that's what I meant."

Neville wondered idly why he couldn't keep his stupid mouth shut. Gran was always telling him 'If you can't think of anything to say, then don't say anything at all: it makes one appear much more intelligent than one actually is.'

"Because if I thought you were..."

Oh, would someone _please_ get rid of the hairy horror!

Aragorn took pity on him with a call to attention. Gimli gave the young wizard another glowering glance before turning to the ranger.

"Come, my friends. Let us now decide our course: Mordor, or Isengard? As for me, I will follow the Orcs."

This was a difficult choice for Neville. He had sworn to the Valar that he would protect the Fellowship so that they could complete their quest and bring about the downfall of the Dark Lord Sauron. But the Fellowship was broken and the One Ring now travelled through the bleak land of Emyn Muil under the protection of one weary gentlehobbit and his best friend. He had promised Molly he would keep their path safe, so really, he should go with them.

On the other hand, the fate of the quest rested in more hands than those of Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee. He knew that the lure of the Ring on such a prolonged journey may eventually prove too difficult to ignore for the remaining party. All present were strong-minded people, but he of all people knew the danger of a wizard's magic. Sometimes, it required more than a mind of steel to resist. If any of the four present fell to its influence, he couldn't guarantee that Frodo would be lucky enough to escape, as Boromir had bid him to.

Perhaps two small hobbits, armed with their unwavering determination and courage, and the magic of the same elven cloak that now graced his own shoulders, could prevail where a larger party could not? Hobbits did appear to be more resilient to the Ring's lure than the other races of Middle Earth and there was every chance they could make it to the Black Lands with their minds intact and their hearts untainted.

As much as he hated the thought of them struggling through the rest of the journey on their own, Neville knew he would have to place his faith in their courage, for he had seen it with his own eyes. Silent, pensive Frodo, fighting an evil which plagued his every hour as it whispered its seductive treachery to his mind, yet was still able to smile or joke with his cousins - he was a formidable opponent and would not lightly succumb to the Ring's arts. As for Sam: modest, unassuming, whose devotion to his beloved plants was second only to that of his master - he had no desire for power or glory. He just wanted to get his master to Mordor and back in one piece so they could all go back to Bag End for a nice cup of tea and a slice of seed cake.

The Ring was safe in their hands.

With his mind made up, Neville spoke: "I vote we follow Merry, Pippin and Molly, too," he said. "We can't let them fall into the hands of this Saruman bloke. He's the biggest threat just now. If he uses his magic to make them talk, then he'll probably let Sauron know right away and that means he'll be on the lookout for Frodo and Sam. Anyway, I don't know how good Molly's wandless magic is, but if it's not as good as my Gran's used to be, and she can't get her wand back, then they're done for."

Well, actually, Merry and Pippin were done for. Molly would be okay because of the Light of Varda, but he couldn't bear the thought of the young cousins being cruelly tortured for information while she was forced to watch. That alone might kill her.

Legolas and Gimli agreed with Aragorn too and soon they were packing provisions and stashing the boats behind some of the trees where no one would spot them.

Once all were ready, they left the lawn and returned to the glade where Boromir had fallen. The cairn was a reminder of their recent loss, but they had no time to dwell on their pain as Aragorn searched the ground for the trail of the orcs who had carried their friends off. It was a task quickly completed, for the heavy indents of orcish boots were easily visible on the mossy ground.

"No other folk make such a trampling," said Legolas in disgust. "It seems their delight to slash and beat down growing things that are not even in their way."

Neville grunted as he spared a final glance at Boromir's last resting place. When he caught up to his friend's killers, he'd be doing some slashing and beating of his own.

In fact, he was looking forward to it. Gran would highly approve.

"But they go with great speed for all that," Aragorn remarked, "and they do not tire. And later we may have to search for our path in hard, bare lands."

Oh great. A nice bit of never-ending cross-country sprinting! Good thing he was an accomplished sports-wizard...

Neville stomach fell slightly as he looked at his seriously out of condition form.

"Well, after them! Dwarves too can go swiftly, and they do not tire sooner than Orcs. But it will be a long chase: they have a long start."

Brilliant! He'd be trailing behind the world's fastest man, the world's most athletic elf and the world's most self-deluded dwarf. Neville kicked himself for putting the Miruvor back in the knapsack instead of pocketing it. He didn't want to bring it out now and take a massive swig in case he looked like the world's most intimidated wizard.

Which, come to think of it, would have made Boromir laugh. The thought brought a sad smile to his lips.

"Yes," said Aragorn, "we shall need all the endurance of Dwarves. But come! With hope or without hope we will follow the trail of our enemies. And woe to them, if we prove the swifter!"

Woe indeed. He didn't know about the others, but when he got his wand on the greasy mutants, he was going to carve them up like Muggle pumpkins on Hallowe'en and owl-post their intestines back to Saruman the Fright.

Once he found a decent Wizard's Owl, of course.

Aragorn continued: "We will make such a chase as shall be counted a marvel among the Four Kindreds: Elves, Dwarves, Men and Wizards…"

Hah! The marvel would be if he lasted longer than half an hour.

"Forth the Four Hunters!"

"You hear that, lad?" said Gimli with a menacing gleam in his eye as he clapped him (a bit too heartily) on the back. "We go to avenge our friend and retake the Hobbits and Lady Molly. It shall be a chase worthy of a song!"

"Oh no, please don't sing!" Neville begged before he could stop himself, imagining the suddenly ebullient dwarf breaking into a truly ear-shattering chorus. "My earmuffs are still in my knapsack."

Legolas smiled. "Come, Gimli. Come Neville. Let us make the Enemy answer in blood for their folly this day."

And steeling himself for the journey ahead, the teenager broke into a run behind his friends as they raced to save the lives of their captured companions. If these orcs were as fast as Aragorn said, he might be running for hours, but never mind. He'd do it to save his friends.

He'd do it for Boromir.

**XXX**

The first stop they made was during the still hour before dawn - and Neville had never been so grateful to fall on his rump in his life. They had passed through the forest and over some of the ridges of the western Emyn Muil, and while the others were tired, they didn't seem to be as utterly knackered as the young wizard. His head was spinning and his breath came in great gasps. Much to his mortification, Gimli was walking calmly towards him looking as fresh as a spring daisy.

"You do not fare well, lad," he said as he took a seat next to the exhausted youth.

"I'm...fine. Honest."

A complete lie.

"Nay, I do not think so. Your skin has a deathly pallor to it. Do you suffer yet from the hurt to your arm?"

Neville flexed his right arm tiredly. "No, not really. I just lost a bit of blood, that's all. The spell I used healed the skin, but it didn't replace the fluid."

Gimli nodded in understanding. "And how is it you have fared so well thus far?"

"Miruvor. Cirdan gave us a flask before we left the Grey Havens."

"Ah, I see. Well lad, you cannot sustain yourself on naught but that. Its grace is but a temporary gift."

The dwarf rummaged in his pack and pulled out some lembas.

"Eat," he commanded gruffly, offering a healthy corner of his own supply.

"Thanks, Gimli." he popped it into his mouth and chewed, savouring the flaky honeyed food.

Aragorn and Legolas returned from the peak they had been peering over to join them.

"No sign of the Orcs, I fear."

"Which way would they turn, do you think?" queried Legolas as Gimli handed out more lembas. "Northward to take a straighter road to Isengard, or Fangorn if that is their aim as you guess? Or southward to strike the Entwash?"

"They will not make for the river, whatever mark they aim at," said Aragorn, chewing thoughtfully on his waybread. "And unless there is much amiss in Rohan and the power of Saruman is greatly increased, they will take the shortest way that they can over the fields of the Rohirrim. Let us search northwards!"

"Let us give the lad a few moments more to recover himself first, Aragorn," said Gimli, much to Neville's embarrassment and relief.

The ranger peered at the teenager closely. "You are yet pale, young Wizard!" he exclaimed. "Why did you not call for a halt earlier? Do not forget the blood you have spilled this day!"

Neville refrained from rolling his eyes. It wasn't like he was going to forget _that_ in a hurry. "I know, I know, don't worry. I just need some food and fluids to replace my energy and I'll be fine."

"See that you drink just now then, my friend. We shall wait another half hour, but then we must strike out again."

He nodded. Knowing just the right thing to make him feel hale again, he opened his knapsack and pulled out some of Molly's flowery orange and yellow mugs. Legolas smiled.

"What cheerful colours they are! They remind me of their mistress."

A sudden pang of loneliness swept the teenager. Despite the fact that he was sitting with three of the best people he'd ever met, it was the first time he and Molly had been parted since they arrived in Middle Earth. She hadn't been gone for very long, but already he missed her motherly fussing and slapping of (usually Gimli's) hands as they reached for a dish of her delicious stew, or Sam's mouth-watering bacon and eggs.

"Yeah, they're Molly all over, aren't they?" he said with a sad smile.

He pointed his wand at each of them in turn and a steaming, rich brown liquid soon filled them up. The scent went up his nose and round his heart. Picking up a mug, he took a sip of his hot chocolate.

"Well, tuck in you lot, before it gets cold."

Gimli, always eager to show what a fearless warrior he was, picked up a second mug. His eyes were gleaming with anticipation as he savoured the aroma and he took a cautious sip of the strange new beverage.

"Mahal's beard!" he cried in giddy delight after the first swallow. "'Tis a drink fit for the very Valar themselves!"

This robust endorsement was enough to encourage Aragorn and Legolas to take their own mugs and soon, four beaming faces graced the slopes of the lonely hills.

"I tell you now, were Sauron himself to come crashing over the hill this instant and deprive me of my head, I would die a very happy Dwarf!" declared Gimli, licking his lips appreciatively. "'Tis a jewel of a drink I have found and it will grieve me greatly when you leave and take it with you, lad."

"Well, if you're good, I might let you have some more tomorrow," joked Neville.

"Ah, then Gimli will never taste his treasure again, I fear, for he is as wicked a Dwarf as I have ever met."

They laughed at the good-natured teasing of the elf and Neville's sense of loneliness dwindled a little.

"Why you pointy-eared, glossy-haired, pouting Elf princeling! 'Tis a wonder you manage to leave your wooden halls to fight at all with all the preparation that must go into tying back your tresses!"

Legolas raised a smug brow. "I need not spend any time 'tying back my tresses', jealous one. I was born with them already perfectly arranged."

"Hmph," grunted Gimli in disbelief. "That tells me only that you have not dressed your hair in several thousand years, elfling. You should be ashamed of yourself."

Now the group was laughing in earnest and they finished their hot chocolate in a better mood than they had started it. Soon, the half hour was up and Neville packed away his mugs and stretched his muscles in anticipation of the next round of running.

"Well lad, are you feeling better now?" asked the not-so-gruff dwarf.

"Yeah. Yes I am actually," said Neville. And he meant it too. The dwarf nodded his approval and told him to keep as near to him as he could during the journey, which made the teenager smile.

"Gimli?" he called after him as his friend moved to collect his own pack.

"Aye, lad?"

"Thanks."

"Bah. No need for thanks, lad. What are friends for?"

Neville's smile stayed on his face for a full forty minutes after that.

Despite the fact he was knackered…

**XXX**

For three full days the Four Hunters raced across the lands of the West. They had left the hills of the Emyn Muil behind them after the first day and had been running over the wide, green plains of Rohan ever since.

Near the start of their journey, the trail they were following forked, and they had stumbled across the corpses of five orcs. It seemed that a scuffle had broken out and the soldiers of Saruman had started to turn on each other.

Which was heartening news. If the greasy gits were fighting amongst themselves, it gave Molly and the Hobbits a chance to escape. Perhaps they'd run across them coming in the opposite direction?

It was a heartening thought and it put a smile on Neville's face as he trudged after the three Olympic sprinters who were making him look _really_ bad. When he got home, the first thing he was going to do was ask Dean to tell him more about that Muggle Jim Nasium his stepdad was so enamoured with.

Though, why Muggles could only go to a bloke called Jim Nasium (and there must be quite a few of the men if Dean was to be believed) to see about losing a few pounds was beyond him. Didn't they have public parks to run in?

Much to Neville's dismay, they had not bumped into his Guardian, Merry or Pippin and indeed, they even lost the orcs' trail a while later. It had taken some searching before Aragorn found it again near a winding stream in a valley deep in the heart of the Emyn Muil. And so they had raced on taking only short respites before dawn each day.

Once, Aragorn had spotted a trail left by bare feet on the sweet grass of Rohan and he raced ahead. He came to a halt and surveyed the ground before swooping down to pluck something from the grass. When he returned, he showed them a sign which filled the group with hope and dread.

"Pippin's footprints left this trail, for they are too large to be Lady Molly's and too small to be Merry's. He had a purpose when he ran - and his purpose was this."

His fist opened to reveal a small leaf that glittered in the sunlight.

"The elven brooch!" cried Neville.

"Indeed. Not idly do the leaves of Lórien fall. He left a trail for us, but at what expense to his well-being, I cannot say. Come, let us go forth!"

And off they went again, eyes scanning the ground for any further clues dropped by their captive friends, but much to their disappointment, there were none.

At dusk of the third day, they halted briefly and the young wizard sagged gratefully onto the grass.

"Those ruddy orcs are gonna be the death of me," he wheezed tiredly. "Don't they ever stop?"

"They run as if the very whips of Sauron were behind them," Legolas declared, looking annoyingly fresh. "I fear they have already reached the forest and the dark hills, and even now are passing into the shadows of the trees."

Brilliant. That was the part Neville was most looking forward too - a possible trek through the Middle Earth version of the Forbidden Forest. Which reminded him...

"Are there any werewolves in Fangorn?"

"Werewolf?" asked Aragorn, rubbing his stiff calf muscles. "Is that aught akin to a wereworm?"

A were_worm_? Neville sprang from the grass in horror, suddenly fully alert, and began to inspect it gingerly with a look of the utmost revulsion on his face. He whipped out his wand and cried "_Lumos_!"

The wand's light glowed softly in the dusk as the young wizard searched frantically through the tall grass for signs of flesh-eating earthworms.

"What is he doing, do you think?" he heard Gimli ask the others curiously, but he was too busy hunting through the grass for ravenous monsters to let them know what he was up to.

"I know not," came the equally curious voice of Legolas. "Perhaps he seeks the answer to some Wizardly puzzle that may only be found in the grass by moonlight."

"'Tis very odd then that he did not seek it yester-eve, for the moon was as full then as I have ever seen it."

Neville ignored them.

"True," came the sage voice of Aragorn. "But then, who but a Wizard may truly know the ways of their own kind? Perhaps the moon was not quite in the right position for this strange ritual."

Neville was almost bent double, grunting with effort as he ripped blades of grass from the ground.

"Alas that this ritual sees the destruction of the beauty of Rohan's grasses," lamented Legolas.

A gruff snort of dwarven laughter. "Tree coddler! Only an Elf could despair of the loss of a few blades of grass. 'Tis a good thing that Elves do not keep cows or they would be weeping constantly."

Aagh! What the bloody hell was that?

Something had skimmed over his foot and Neville, in a blind panic, began to hop around trying to dislodge it.

"See? Now he dances. What manner of Wizard's business is this?"

His foot was mercifully flesh-eating-worm free and cautiously he put it on the ground again.

But wait? Why cautiously? Wereworm or not, it was still only a worm, surely?

Heartened by the realisation, the young wizard began to stamp furiously on the grass and the eyebrows of his audience shot into their respective hairlines.

"Take that!" he cried with fervour. "And that, you evil little gits! Sod off and _die_!"

"Master Longbottom?"

"Go on, get lost!"

"Master Longbottom?"

Aagh! Something ran over his foot _again_!

Fed up with it, Neville pointed his wand at his unseen assailant and cried: "_Reducto_!"

There was a squeak and a splatter as his enemy exploded into several fragments.

"_Master Longbottom_!"

Neville whipped around to face the others with a very victorious grin on his face.

It was difficult to tell, not being daylight, but Gimli did not look very happy. He stuck his glowing wand in the dwarf's direction and saw that he was scarlet with temper.

What was his problem?

"Neville," enquired Aragorn, as he cautiously approached the youth and put his hand to the tip of his wand, forcing it gently down. "What exactly were you seeking?"

"Well...you said wereworms, and I thought..."

"Yes?"

"Well, you see, werewolves are really nasty things in my world and they rip you to pieces and eat you. Only, sometimes they don't quite manage to kill their victims, and the victims turn into werewolves too."

Gimli was puce with anger, but Legolas and Aragorn knew where the teenager was going with his explanation and they valiantly tried not to laugh.

"So you thought that wereworms may be of the same ilk?" suggested the ranger in a rather strangled voice.

Neville hesitated. "Yeeess..."

The ranger spoke patiently, as if he were addressing a skittish child (which he was). "Wereworms are creatures of Hobbit imagination, my friend. Legends they tell their children by the fireside on a cold Winter's night. If they exist at all, then it is in lands far east of the one we now stand in."

Oh no.

"You mean, there're no flesh-eating worms here that'll turn you in to one of them if they can't finish you off?"

"Nay, my friend." Aragorn was finding it more difficult to control his amusement and Neville saw him bite down hard on his lower lip.

"Then what the ruddy hell did I just blast into bits?" he demanded, very confused.

"A _MOUSE_!" yelled Gimli, making him jump.

The teenager raised his wand in the dwarf's direction again and saw that he had, indeed, slain a mouse...

...and its tail was clinging to the very unhappy dwarf's beard.

Oops.

"Crikey! I'm really sorry Gimli. Honestly, I thought the place was crawling with flesh-eating worms..."

This statement was so ridiculous that Aragorn and Legolas couldn't hold in their laughter any more. The ranger's roars of mirth mixed with the tinkling music of the elf's laughter. Soon, even Gimli saw the funny side as he plucked the deceased field mouse's tail from his beard and shook his head in disbelief. His hearty bellows even induced a few embarrassed chuckles from the mortified wizard.

And as he lay down for a short nap that night on wereworm free grass, Neville could still hear the occasional snort of laughter from one or other of his companions.

**XXX**

The next day was more of the same, only this time, to Neville's relief, they marched as opposed to ran. Gimli's back was almost bent with his valiant efforts to remain in pace with the taller man and elf, and Neville had blisters on his heels. And toes. They popped and reformed every few miles and he was unable to stop and heal them in case he lost sight of the others, so he was relieved indeed when Aragorn suggested the brisk march instead.

The night grew cold as they ascended a hill and finally took their rest. Legolas kept watch as the others slept, covered in the scant warmth of their Lórien cloaks. Neville had tried a Heating charm to make everyone a little more comfortable, but it didn't last too long in the cold night air and finally he gave up renewing them every half hour when Aragorn insisted he get some rest.

It was the next day that brought the Four Hunters signs of life other than their own. To the banks of the Entwash, flowing out from the forest of Fangorn, they followed the orc trail, where Aragorn suddenly stopped them. His eyes travelled from the river's edge to the forest off in the distance and he spotted a dark, swift-moving blur. He threw himself to the ground and listened intently, but Legolas, with his (superior) elven vision, called out first: they were horsemen.

Aragorn smiled. "Keen are the eyes of the Elves."

"Nay! The riders are less than a league away."

Neville wanted to cheer. Horses! Thank goodness. His legs were killing him. Perhaps they'd be interested in a swap? A dwarf for a horse?

He chuckled mischievously as he glanced fondly at Gimli.

"What are you laughing at, lad?"

"Nothing."

"That is well. I would not like to have to tell Lady Molly about your little adventure with the flesh-eating worms," he growled, eyes twinkling.

Git.

Aragorn decided it was best to wait for the passing of the riders, when they could hail them and ask for signs of their quarry. It was a little over forty minutes later that the riders approached, the hooves of their steeds thundering across the ground as they drew near the downs.

Clear, strong cries carried on the wind towards their ears and the Four Hunters were suddenly swept up in a noise like thunder as the leader passed by them; a long line of men clad in shining mail with flowing blond hair under tight helms followed in his wake.

Neville shook his head in disbelief. What was it with the men of this world and their long hair? Had barbers not been invented yet?

The men held tall spears, painted shields were slung over their backs and long swords hung at their sides. They rode by in pairs, seemingly not noticing the four strangers watching them.

Well, if they were the Rohirrim, they were very impressive. A bit aloof (because it was just plain rude not to acknowledge someone else's presence), but still, a lot friendlier looking than the ruddy orcs.

The host of riders had almost passed them by. Only a few were left at the end, brandishing their spears and looking really quite ferocious, actually. Neville wondered if their intimidating appearance had made Aragorn change his mind about hailing them, when all of a sudden, the ranger stood up.

"What news from the North, Riders of Rohan?"

Apparently, Isildur's heir was not so easily scared. Excellent! Because Neville had spotted three riderless horses near the front that had his name stamped all over them.

But his happy mood quickly turned sour when the riders checked their steeds with astonishing speed and wheeled around to surround the group in a running circle. They pointed their spears at the Four Hunters, moving in ever tighter circles towards their captives, Neville drew his wand and brandished it threateningly.

He was fed up with people pointing spears at him and his friends. Why couldn't they just shake hands? Were the Rohirrim under Saruman's evil spell after all? Well, if these rude gits were spoiling for a fight, he was in just the right mood to give it to them.

And as their leader closed in, aiming his spear at Aragorn's chest, Neville fired...

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Author's Note_: Some of the dialogue and geographical descriptions have been taken directly from Lord Of the Rings: The Two Towers Book Three - Chapters 1 and 2.

I put off starting this chapter for days because the thought of Boromir's death scene was killing me (not as much as it was killing him though, poor sod).

But, the deed is done now and the brave Gondorian has breathed his last, as dictated by canon. Some things just shouldn't be messed with, and that's one of them!

Next week: Augusta in Imladris. Miss it if you dare (Elrond would if he could).

Kara's Aunty ;)


	13. The Green Witch

**Disclaimer:**Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. and Lord of the Rings and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

**Credit: **www dot hp-encyclopedia dot com and www dot Tuckborough dot net, behindthename dot com, teara dot govt dot nz, realelvish dot net.

**Please review - it really _is_ my only reward.**

**Not Quite A Maia**

**Chapter 13**

* * *

_2 days earlier (Third Age: 28th February 3019)_

_Imladris_

Elrond of Imladris was sitting in his private study poring over maps and discussing the possible location and progress of the Fellowship with his faithful counsellor, Erestor. Over two weeks ago, a messenger from Lórien had brought them news of Gandalf the Grey's battle with the Balrog of Khazad-dûm, and the wizard's subsequent death. It had stunned them all. How would his loss impact on the success of the Quest? Would Aragorn now commit himself to his true path as Isildur's heir and fulfil his destiny? Would the mission to destroy the One Ring, and with it the Dark Lord Sauron, be successful without the guidance of the Grey Pilgrim?

Often was the elven ruler to be found secluded in his study with his closest advisors speculating on these issues, and it was as he was discussing the fate of the West once more with his friend that a frenzied rapping on the door interrupted their weighty conversation. Glancing at his solemn companion in some surprise (for no one _ever _rapped on his door frenziedly - not even when a four year old Estel swallowed an entire pot of ink after mistaking it for blackberry juice), he called:

"Enter."

A rather harried servant appeared through the doorway, his fine features flushed with excitement. Elrond briefly closed his eyes and sighed heavily, speculating that his rambunctious sons had perhaps returned early from their scouting mission to the borders of Imladris and had been causing chaos among the recently arrived Dúnedain again (they usually spent hours imbibing on his finest Dorwinion wine in a friendly attempt to prove their elven superiority against the hardy Numenoreans - Halbarad had predictably lost the last encounter and spent the next three days emptying the never-ending contents of his stomach when he _should_ have been making his way back to guard the borders of the Shire).

"My Lord!" declared the servant breathlessly. "The most astonishing thing has occurred!"

Elrond's eyelids flew open. Astonishing? Perhaps, unlikely as it seemed, Halbarad had been victorious this time? Which could only mean his two eldest children had succumbed to the mortal blood flowing through their half-elven veins and were, at this very moment, stumbling through the corridors of Imladris in a very un-elflike manner (probably declaring how much they 'loved' everyone); either that or they were lying sprawled unconscious in the Hall of Fire while the victorious ranger toasted his win with what remained of Elrond's finest wine.

He would kill them!

And possibly Halbarad too.

"What have they done now?" he asked tiredly, expecting the worst. As did Erestor, who fair face bore an expression of amused anticipation.

Still, at least he was not smirking in the annoying fashion favoured by Glorfindel. There were times when, close friend or not, he could cheerfully strangle the ebullient Balrog slayer (but of course he refrained: Glorfindel would no doubt come back from the dead again merely to pester him - it was rather an irritating habit of his).

"They?" echoed the messenger, thrown by the query.

"Yes, Finthwael; _they_. My sons."

A horrible thought occurred to him: had Glorfindel been with them? Egging them on? It was not unknown for the mighty elven warrior to encourage their mischief if he felt the day required a little excitement.

He frowned. So be it! Future resurrection notwithstanding, Glorfindel's days were numbered, too. Either that, or he would send him to Lothlórien (he saw no reason why his mother-in-love should while away her years in peaceful harmony while he juggled two rowdy elflings and a deranged elf Lord whose sole purpose in life was to corrupt his offspring - thank goodness Arwen, at least, was not prone to food fights, tree-scaling, drinking contests ...).

"Nay, my Lord. 'Tis the Eagle! The Eagle has landed!"

An eagle landed?

"Finthwael, oft lands the eagle in Imladris," said Elrond patiently. "And the robin, and the sparrow. And, if you recall, mellon nin, this last week a flock of black swans also graced us with their beauteous presence."

_Now_ Erestor was smirking. Curse the influence of that gregarious Balrog slayer!

Finthwael shook his head furiously. "Nay, Lord. _The_ Eagle! Gwaihir the Windlord."

Both elves shot out of their chairs. Gwaihir! This was news indeed! Never before had the mighty Lord of Eagles bestowed his presence on Imladris Fair and they exchanged a look of trepidation. What ill news did this herald? Had the Ring been discovered by the enemy? The Fellowship slain?

His mortal son perished?

A stab of fear shot through Elrond. It could not be! His father's heart would know, surely, if the worst had befallen Aragorn? What would he tell his daughter?

His gaze fixated on the elf at the door and he addressed him now with a note of urgency. "Did he say why he came?"

Let it not be thus ...

"Nay, my Lord. But he brought with him a passenger."

A passenger? The Lord of the Eagles was not a horse: he did not carry passengers. What could this mean?

"A passenger?"

Finthwael nodded, and Elrond could swear he was trying to smother a grin.

Hmm. Aragorn must be well, thank the Valar; the ellon would not be so merry were he not. Relieved that his youngest child would know the joy of another dawn, the graceful being moved across the room with Erestor in tow.

"This passenger: who is he? Did he give his name or inform you what his purpose was?"

"He? Oh ... nay, my Lord. But Gwaihir asks for an audience with you, that he may explain their purpose."

"I see." He turned to his counsellor with raised brows. "What say you, Erestor? Shall we grant the noble Eagle and his passenger an audience?"

His friend bowed his head in consent. "'Twould be an honour indeed to welcome the Windlord and his guest to our halls, my Lord."

"And so the matter is settled. Lead the way, mellon nin," he directed Finthwael, and the three elves left the study.

As they walked through the corridor towards the courtyard stairwell, the Lord of Imladris reflected on the identity of Gwaihir's mysterious 'passenger'. One of Thranduil's people, perhaps? Nay. Mirkwood's king had not the power to summon the mighty eagles (regardless of what the overconfident monarch may believe). A messenger from Lothlórien, then? Unlikely. Despite the troubled times, the Galadhrim would still prefer to travel the roads and mountain passes on the backs of their swift elven steeds than ride the feathered one of a soaring bird.

No sooner had he dismissed the idea of a flying elf, than a shrill, high pitched voice resounded through the air shattering the tranquillity of the renowned haven.

"Unhand me at once, young man! Do I look like a sack of potatoes? I am perfectly able to dismount by myself!"

Shock at the crisp and decidedly _feminine_ tone gave both Elrond and Erestor pause, and each stared at Finthwael in question.

"That would be the Lord Gwaihir's esteemed passenger, my Lords," explained the smiling elf.

A woman? Impossible! Elrond had never heard of any ruler despatching a member of the fairer sex as a messenger, and certainly not in such troubled times. Pehraps the lady was the ruler herself, come in desperation to beg aid for her beleaguered people? She must be a woman of note indeed, if she could summon the mighty Gwaihir to bear her hence. Elrond racked his brains, trying to think of any country known ruled by a female monarch, but came up blank.

"I too am at a loss," whispered Erestor as their guide continued on his way, forcing them to fall into step behind him.

The mysterious visitor's voice floated towards them again as they drew nearer the stairwell.

"Well, this is a vast improvement on Isengard, I must say! Have you seen the dungeons there, young man? No? Very wise of you. They are absolutely disgraceful! One can always tell a lot about a person from the condition in which they keep their home, you know, and that sorry excuse for a wizard is without a doubt the worst housekeeper I have ever had the misfortune of encountering. Not a loo in sight!"

A pause, then:

"You do have loos here, don't you? It would be most disappointing to find that this charming place was little more than a pretty façade!"

Isengard! The trio put more speed in their step, determined to find out what knowledge the lady had of the enemy wizard's abode - and how she came about it.

"What is a 'loo'?" enquired Erestor with a slight frown on his even features.

Elrond was at a loss. "I know not. Perhaps a mirror of sorts? It is of little matter. She speaks of Orthanc as if she has knowledge of it. If that is true, then it may be that either she is a spy sent by Saruman, or she has come to warn us of an attack by his hand. But on whom? Elves? Men?"

They had no further time for speculation, for they were now on the terrace that led to the stairwell. It offered a sweeping view of the wide courtyard which was currently filled with many elves and Dúnedain bowing in greeting to the magnificent bird that graced the paved ground. Elrond could not yet see the woman due to the numbers surrounding the visitors, but he almost balked when his eyes caught sight of an ugly, bald-headed bird wobbling amidst a half dozen men.

By now he was burning with curiosity (not that he would allow it to show - elf lords had to present themselves with a certain dignity, after all) and he descended the staircase swiftly. The large company on the courtyard parted in respect as the Lord of Imladris appeared, allowing him to reach his guests in a matter of seconds. He nodded his head in a graceful greeting to the Eagle.

"Gwaihir, Windlord of the Skies. It is an honour indeed to welcome you to my humble abode."

The eagle bowed his head in return. "I bring you greetings from the Valar, Elrond of Imladris, and beg your pardon for the manner of my visit. I would have sent forth word to warn you of my impending arrival, but there was not time."

"You need beg no pardon from me, Windlord. It will always be a joy to welcome one of the Great Eagles to Imladris, whether or not we have prior knowledge of your visit. How may I be of service to you?"

"Manwë himself summoned me two weeks since to request that I seek a Wizard lost amid the lands of Arda. If I found him, he bade me bring him to the safety of your halls until such time as the outcome of the war had been determined."

A wizard? Lost amid the lands of Arda? Perhaps Alatar or Pallando had returned to the lands of the West upon hearing of their brother Istar's fall, having determined to take a more active role in the banishment of Sauron. But who, then, was the woman? For she was most certainly not one of the Blue Wizards.

"A wizard, indeed!" said a disgruntled voice from amidst the mass of men to his left. "Kindly remove yourself from my foot, young man! Do I look like a pavement?"

A mumbled apology and some shuffling followed, but Gwaihir chose to ignore the outburst. "For many days I flew across the lands of the West, before venturing farther east, yet I found no sign of such a Wizard."

"That's because he doesn't exist!" said the voice sharply, adding: "My good fellow, is there any particular reason why you are staring at my legs? It's hardly polite!"

Elrond allowed his gaze to flicker to the left, trying to locate the source of the voice, but its owner was still concealed amidst a crowd of (very distracted) Dúnedain. What did this mysterious visitor know of the existence of wizards?

And why were the Dúnedain staring at her legs? Was she improperly robed?

He returned his gaze to the eagle while the voice continued to mutter scornfully about non-existent wizards, chauvinistic assumptions and wandering eyes. He had the feeling that Gwaihir would have rolled his own, if he had been able to.

"Indeed," the eagle said, confirming the lady's statement with a ruffle of feathers and a nod of his head. "No Wizard was it that I found. Instead, almost as hope had faded from my heart of locating my prize, I found a Witch. I present to you now the Lady Augusta, Lord."

No sooner had Gwaihir said 'witch' than gasps of surprise emitted from the assembled company and the men surrounding the mysterious being (finally) parted to reveal ...

... a little old lady in green, sporting the most bizarre headdress that Elrond had seen in his several thousand years of life. Wisps of iron-grey hair jutted from beneath a small, pointed hat, and the ugliest bird he had ever had the misfortune of laying his eyes on stared across at him with glassy eyes. It wobbled precariously on its perch, looking for all the world as if it, too, had been imbibing on his best Dorwinion wine. Beneath the hideous hat, thin eyebrows arched above intelligent blue orbs which assessed him thoroughly. Elrond barely resisted the impulse to straighten his robes under her intense scrutiny. By the Valar! He had not felt this self-conscious since his dearly missed wife first introduced him to her imposing parents (which had been a harrowing affair to say the least; especially when a very bad case of nerves caused him to tread on Galadriel's gown as they were walking to the feast prepared in his honour - and it ripped all the way up to her shapely shin. To this day, Celeborn still refused to believe it was an accident). The woman wore a short green gown which barely covered her calves (explaining the Dúnedain's fascination) and a green woollen coat. Both her face and clothes were streaked with dirt, but it did little to tamper her brimming confidence. She marched forward briskly and proffered a wrinkled hand with tapering, bony fingers.

"Good day to you, young man. The name's Longbottom. Augusta Longbottom. As you see, I am most decidedly _not_ a wizard," she said as she pumped his hand furiously up and down in her firm grip. "I must apologise for my rather dishevelled appearance. Normally, I would never dream of introducing myself in anything less than pristine condition, but it is rather difficult to perform even the most basic of ablutions when one is flying several hundred feet above the ground. I do hope you understand."

Then, to his (and everyone else's) astonishment, she produced a very short stick and waved it across her form. The dirt vanished from her peculiar garments and wizened face instantly.

"There! Not as satisfactory as a good old-fashioned scrub, mind you, but much better nonetheless. Of course, if your friends over there -"

She pointed an imperious finger at the rather guilty-looking Dúnedain.

"- hadn't insisted on dragging me off this fine young eagle's back and pawing at me in the most uncivilised manner, I would have been able to render myself a little more presentable _before_ your arrival."

Pawing at her?

Elrond, completely at a loss for words, could only stare blankly at Halbarad.

"Forgive us, Lady," said the ranger sincerely. "Your appearance startled us and we thought not that you had the energy to dismount. We wished only to offer our arms in support."

One thin eyebrow raised itself. "Did you now? Well, I don't suppose I can't blame you for trying to be gallant - it's certainly one of the first instances of it I've come across in the last fortnight - but I would like to point out, for future reference, of course, that it is not advisable to haul a lady from her steed in such a manner unless one intends to make a proposal of marriage -"

Halbarad flushed.

"- and I don't imagine a fine looking fellow like you is _quite_ desperate enough for a bride that he has to stalk the streets ready to pounce on the first unsuspecting old woman he meets."

A wave of laughter from his fellow men and several tinkling chuckles swept the crowd. Elrond fought a smile of his own.

"Lady Augusta," he began, "I am Elrond, Lord of Imladris, and I bid you welcome. It is a great honour to receive you in these halls, for never before have we welcomed a Witch."

The elderly woman gave a very unladylike snort. "Yes, well, I'm beginning to realise that a witch is something of a novelty in this corner of the world. Most irregular. Still, I shouldn't be surprised, what with the appalling lack of personal hygiene and good manners I've encountered. Don't worry, my good man, I mean no slight on _your_ excellent abode. It all seems very clean and pretty here so far - although those shifty fellows who dragged me off my feathered friend here smell rather like a group of rancid orcs. You, however, smell rather nice. So things are looking up, as they say."

Another snort, this time behind the extraordinary being, and Elrond saw at least six grown men taking furtive sniffs at their armpits. Well, they only had themselves to blame at her slight: he had offered them all the opportunity of a hot bath two days ago, but instead they had indulged in pointless drinking contests with his sons (and no doubt Glorfindel too).

Which reminded him: where were the troublesome trio? They should have returned from their scouting mission by now.

Giving himself a mental shake, he took a moment to collect his thoughts before replying. "I am delighted that Imladris offers a more favourable impression of the West than what you have encountered so far, my Lady. Pray, allow me to offer you the hospitality of my home." He nodded discreetly at a pair of elves in the curious crowd and they obediently left to carry out his unspoken order.

"A chamber is being readied for you as we speak," he continued, offering the old woman his arm.

"That's very kind of you, young man, I must say."

Erestor swallowed a grin at her form of address.

"I was beginning to doubt you Australians had any manners at all, and were it not for my feathered friend here and those very nice chaps at the edge of the forest, I would have been writing a very unfavourable letter to your Tourist Information Board the minute I got back to England. However, you are beginning to restore my faith in the colonies."

Tourist Information? Colonies? He exchanged a mystified glance with Erestor, who merely shrugged elegantly.

"It might interest you to know," the lady said in her clipped tones, breaking through his momentary confusion, "that we ran into a spot of bother at the river back there."

She motioned behind her with a nod of her head.

"It seems that a group of orcs were attempting to cross the river back there and some of your people were having trouble keeping them at bay."

Orcs! So near to Imladris? Another cloud of fear passed over his heart. His sons and Glorfindel were patrolling the borders of the forest that day! They were more than capable of defending themselves in a skirmish, but the very fact the enemy's forces were growing bold enough to make an attempt on his land was cause for concern. Elrond's eyes widened as the warriors in the crowd grabbed their weapons and made ready to dash for the stables.

"Wait! Let us hear how this tale ends before we all rush into conflict. And do not forget that the borders of this land are well protected against unwanted intrusion."

Men and elves alike stopped in their tracks at his authoritative tone and all eyes rested expectantly on the old woman as they awaited further information.

"How close to the river are they?" the dark-haired lord demanded with an unmistakable note of urgency in his voice.

But their guest was unperturbed at his concern. "Not close enough for a good wash, unfortunately," she replied, sniffing disdainfully. "At least, not any more. Some of them are scattered across several hundred yards of land; there's nothing like a good Blasting charm to get rid of unwanted pests, you know. Most effective. And I believe a few of those hairy brutes they were riding are still caught in the trees on the other side of the riverbank. You may want to send some of these fine fellows over to put them out of their misery."

Hairy brutes in trees? His look of astonishment was clearly written across his face, and it provoked further elaboration from Gwaihir.

"'Tis the first time I have seen a flying Warg, my Lord. A most interesting spectacle, though I need not fear competition from them in the air. They lack the appropriate appendages."

He ruffled his great wings proudly. The witch smiled in approval.

"Quite, my good fellow. There's nothing as graceless as an airborne wolf, unless it's an airborne orc," she said. Her host's heart stop with her next words.

"One of your guards suffered an injury before I could intervene, though. Took an arrow to the left arm. But it can't have dampened his spirits much because he refused to take my place and allow my friend here to carry him back while I accompanied his friends in his place. A very hardy fellow, I must say! Pity I didn't catch his name before we took off, for I'd very much like to shake him by the hand."

Her voice rang with admiration and all the elves and Dúnedain present straightened, puffing out their chests in pride at her resounding approval.

Elrond refrained from sagging in relief. He did not know if it was his sons, his friend or one of the other border guards who had sustained the injury, but at least it was not fatal. "No doubt you will have the opportunity to do so upon his return, my Lady, for it is less than a day's journey from the Ford of Bruinen to Imladris. And allow me to express my gratitude to you both for your swift actions in preventing further injury."

He executed a graceful bow to the eagle and the witch and they nodded in return.

"No need for thanks, young man. Any decent person would do the same and I must admit to having rather enjoyed myself. Now, if you don't mind, the evening air is getting a little chilly and I would be terribly obliged if I could take a seat next to a roaring fireplace. Do you happen to have one?"

The extraordinary woman, fresh from defending an unknown realm against hostile attack, took a firm hold of his arm before turning to her travelling companion.

"Well, thank you very much for your timely arrival, young ma ... I mean, my good fel ... oh, well, thank you anyway Gwaihir. Very decent of you to rescue an old woman in need. Is there anything I can do to repay your kindness? Perhaps trim those talons of yours? They are looking a bit ragged, you know, after getting stuck into all those orcs, and I know the most convenient charm to clip them."

Elrond nearly collapsed in mortification. Merciful Valar! Had she just offered to clip _Gwaihir the Windlord's _ragged toenails?

But Gwaihir merely gave a regal nod of his head. "Lady, you are most ... gracious ... but I find the present condition of my talons to be perfectly satisfactory."

Relief flooded the ancient elf - he had thought the old woman was about to be carried of like a giant worm: fodder for an offended eagle's offspring.

"Well, if you're quite sure. Please be so kind as to pass my gratitude on to your friends, the Valar. If it weren't for their happy intercession and your willing aid, I'd still be stuck on that ghastly tower listening to the inane prattling of a ageing delinquent."

Her words reminded him that the Tower of Orthanc was familiar territory to her, but any suspicions he may have harboured about her spying for Saruman had vanished upon meeting her. He sensed immediately that the lady's aura was strong and noble, her heart true. The Valar would not have sent Gwaihir to rescue her otherwise.

Elves and men began to move backwards as the eagle prepared to spread its wings in flight. "Will you not remain a little longer, Gwaihir?" he asked solicitously. "We would be honoured to offer you a place to rest and fresh provisions before you return home."

"I thank you for your generous offer, Lord, but I have been too long from my eyrie and wish to delay my return no further, even were it in such an enchanted realm. Farewell, Lord of Imladris! Farewell Green Witch!"

"May the Wind's currents be warm and buoyant and carry you safely home, mellon nin," declared the elf as the great bird took to the air and circled the courtyard a few times, to the delight of the crowd, before flying away. Finally, the eagle was a speck in the sky and all attention transferred itself from the magnificent spectacle of its flight to the no less impressive spectacle of the 'Green Witch'.

"Have a nice flight!" she called up at the sky before turning her intelligent blue gaze toward Elrond's face. She was assessing him again with those keen eyes, making him feel like a naughty elfling. Time to distract her ...

"My Lady, we have much to discuss. Shall we?" he said indicating the stairwell.

"Lead the way, young man. Lead the way!" she ordered.

And with a smirking Erestor behind them, they started up the stairs towards Elrond's private study, with the hideous bird on her hat wobbling all the way.

**XXX**

Augusta allowed herself to be led down the long corridor. Her host soon turned right and ushered her into a rather large study. Tapestries lined the walls all around and a raised dais to the left contained an impressive assortment of books and parchments on tall, elegantly carved wooden bookcases. A table and several chairs stood before the little library, eager to house learned beings while they lost themselves in the lore of the realm.

"My Lady," said her host, leading her to the far right of the room where a large desk covered in scrolls of parchment and writing implements awaited. "Allow me to offer you a seat. And perhaps some refreshments before we commence?"

"That would be most agreeable, young man," she replied cautiously, shoving a hand in her pocket and gripping her wand. Not that she distrusted the fine fellow, but the last man who'd offered her 'refreshments' had tried to seduce her (albeit with the sole intent of pinching her wand). She eyed the dark-haired man warily, trying to decipher his intentions.

Fortunately for him, Elrond merely offered her one of the comfortable cushioned chairs that sat before his desk before walking around it and opening a small cabinet at the wall. He removed three delicate glass flutes and filled them with what appeared to be red wine (she was beginning to think these Australians were a bunch of raging alcoholics; not once in the last fortnight had she been offered a nice cup of tea), before returning with two, which he offered to both her and the other chap who'd followed them up the stairs. What was the fellow's name again?

When Elrond was seated without having made any sudden moves towards her wand (or her virtue), she relaxed her grip on it and withdrew her hand from her pocket.

"To your very good health, gentlemen," Augusta said as she raised her glass and took a delicate sip of the surprisingly light and wonderfully refreshing liquid.

"How very delicious," she commented, very impressed.

"Thank you, my Lady. It is a wine of our own making, and a personal favourite of my daughter, Arwen."

The witch took another sip. "Well, it may not be a bracing cup of Earl Grey, but there's no denying your daughter's excellent taste."

"I believe that you have yet to be formally introduced to my counsellor, Erestor," her host said, indicating the silent man to her left who had his eyes glued to her hat.

Hmm, the gaping man wasn't saying very much. Perhaps she ought to remove Spot? Its magnificence was quite robbing the fellow of the power of speech.

Plucking it from her head, Augusta placed it on the polished oak desk, tucking it neatly behind a stack of books so that it was hidden from sight. Without the distraction of her excellent millinery, Erestor was now able to verbalise his thoughts.

"My Lady, it is a very great pleasure to meet you."

She pulled her thin lips into a pleasant smile. "Good day, young man. I wasn't sure if you had mentioned your name earlier or if I had forgotten it in all the excitement of my arrival. I must say, it is a great relief to be away from that odious wizard's home. He suffers from the most appalling lack of good manners, you know."

Her host jumped on the opening. "You were a guest in Isengard?"

"Guest? Heavens, no! I was a prisoner! That ridiculous fellow stole my wand and threw me into his dungeons! Naturally I protested this treatment; but then he had me hauled up to his miserable tower and abandoned me there to the mercy of the elements! Disgraceful!"

Elrond's counsellor looked troubled. "My Lady, why did he imprison you? Were you captured by his forces after being sent from Valinor to aid the People of the West in their fight against Sauron?"

Captured by his forces? It would take more than a few idiot orcs to capture this Longbottom!

"I am sorry to disappoint you, young fellow, but I'm afraid I don't know your Valar and I've never been to this Valinor place. I came here only to find my grandson, Neville."

"Your grandson?" enquired her host incredulously. "I confess I am astonished. Do you mean you have borne a _child, _and that they, in turn, have borne their own?"

Wasn't that how one usually became a grandparent?

"What a very odd question! But yes, I am both a mother and a grandmother."

Erestor emitted a soft gasp and she glared at him in disapproval. "What is so shocking about that, young man?"

"Forgive me, my Lady, I mean no disrespect. It is most unusual to find an Istar, be it Wizard or Witch, who has committed themselves to a familial existence."

Yes, well, that would certainly explain why there were only five wizards left in Australia. And if they were all as odious as the idiot she had trounced two days ago, then the sooner they died off, the better!

Although, she had to admit, when she imagined this conversation last night as she and Gwaihir flew over the (never-ending) Misty Mountains, the topic of reproduction had not featured in it at all ...

But the bizarre questions did not stop at her long-gone fertility. Elrond was eyeing her in a very strange manner, and she was about to demand that he explain himself when he spoke:

"Lady Augusta, forgive the inquiry, but ... are you mortal?"

Oh for goodness' sake!

"Of course I'm mortal. What else would I be?"

Once more, Elrond's brows shot into his forehead. "Then you have not come from Valinor, for no mortals are permitted entry there."

Augusta frowned. What was so special about this Valinor anyway, that it wouldn't allow a fine, upstanding citizen like herself entry? What a terribly fussy lot the Valar must be!

"Yet it makes your presence here all the more mystifying," her host said, his brow now furrowed thoughtfully. "A mortal Witch with a grandchild. Truly, you are an enigma, my Lady. But, tell me: have you no idea at all how you came to be in Middle Earth? And how is it that you found yourself a prisoner of Saruman the White if you were searching for this grandson? Was he also a captive?"

She sighed tiredly. "I don't _know_ how I came here, do I? I come from Yorkshire in England, which was where I was until two weeks ago: in the comfort of my own home. My bothersome grandson - who, until the day before had been a very reasonable, sensible sort of boy - decided to take a midnight jaunt to the southern hemisphere with a very valuable artefact from his school, and when I attempted to rouse him from his bed to confront him about it ... _poof_! I found myself lying in a bush in a very chilly valley and the slippery boy was nowhere in sight!"

Which was fortunate for him!

"And you can imagine, I'm sure, how very irritated I was at being dragged into some foreign land by the silly boy only to have him slip from my grasp -"

And so she informed them of the whole gory tale from the strange tingling when she touched Neville's forehead to the flight from the Tower of Orthanc (with the obvious exception of how Grodek and Fragat had caught her in flagrante on her magnificent loo - and she may have glazed over the matter of how, exactly, that frightful wizard had captured her wand). Her host and his counsellor listened intently throughout, emitting only gasps of horror at her treatment at Saruman's hands. She reached the end of her tale with a quick summation of the short battle in his great hall, where they finally stopped her.

"That the White Wizard could be so cruel to anyone is unsurprising," her host declared with a frown. "And I would like to inspect both your arm and ankle to reassure myself that they are healing properly. But, I must ask you: do you mean to tell us that Saruman of 'Many Colours' is now, in reality, Saruman of _many_ colours?"

"Certainly. I never lie, young man. Very bad for the soul, you know."

Well, perhaps she lied a very little - and only on special occasions ...

"And you have endowed him with ... womanly curves?" gasped Erestor in shock.

"Of course," she replied, slightly annoyed at having to repeat herself. "Did I not just say that? What better way to teach the disgraceful man a lesson after he called me a 'weak-minded woman'? He'll not be so quick to criticise now, I should think."

Their laughter filled the room for several minutes until both were able to compose themselves once more. Elrond smiled at her warmly.

"Lady Augusta, as much as your trials sorrow my heart, the manner of your vengeance on the traitor Saruman lightens my weary spirit. A toast to the Green Witch; scourge of faithless Istari everywhere!"

She wasn't familiar with the word 'Istari', but it was obvious he was referring to Saruman, so she nodded graciously at the compliment. Was jolly nice chaps these men were! All smiles and civility (and excellent teeth). It was enough to make her forgive their overflowing locks ...

"So you are a mortal Witch, come from strange lands to seek your missing kin and have been held captive for over a week at the mercy of the traitor Saruman. But, whether you are of the order of the Maiar or not -"

Maiar? What the deuce were they? Did he mean _Maori_? She frowned. The only Maori she'd ever heard of was Piripi the Hippie, a very odd wizard from Auckland with a fondness for headbands and (really, _far_ too many) necklaces. He'd left his native tribe to join a Muggle commune based near Stonehenge, and spent each Midsummer's morning offering spliffs (whatever they were) and nose rubs (self-explanatory) to the local Muggle constabulary, and throwing sticks at visiting officials.

"- the Valar themselves ordered your rescue and now you find yourself here, safe in Imladris, but without your missing grandson." Elrond's dark eyebrows were pulled down in concentration. "Tell me, Lady Augusta: you say you came to these lands almost two weeks ago?"

"That is correct." she said, relieved to be making some progress at last.

"A strange coincidence that you and your grandson came so soon from lands unknown after the death of our great ally Gandalf, is it not?"

Her host's grey gaze rested on her, and she knew immediately what he was thinking.

"Exactly!" the elderly witch declared. "I see you have put two and two together at last!"

The two men glanced at each other in confusion, but she was too relieved to pay it much heed.

"You see, in Britain, we've just fought and won a war of our own against the infamous Dark Lord Voldemort. No doubt you've heard of him? No? Gracious! Well, he was a particularly nasty individual obsessed with ruling the world and spent years planning his complete domination over wizards and Muggles alike. He and his followers killed hundreds - if not thousands - of innocent people over the last few decades and we only managed to defeat him three weeks ago. Neville proved himself to be of invaluable assistance when he destroyed Voldemort's last link to immortality, which allowed that very splendid young Harry Potter to finish off the dreadful nuisance once and for all."

Her companions listened in wide-eyed silence.

"Unfortunately, it appears my overconfident grandson has now got a taste for ridding the world of lunatics. Somehow, he must have discovered you are fighting your own Dark Lord ..."

"And you believe he has come to aid in our fight against Sauron." finished Elrond decisively.

"Exactly! Now, don't misunderstand me: I am very proud of my young man. He acquitted himself admirably and stood up to Voldemort even when everyone else thought that Harry Potter was dead. But, although I sympathise with the fact that your country is fighting its own Dark Lord, Neville has had little time to recover from the trauma of our own war. In fact, we've spent almost the entire week before we came here attending funerals. I think it highly possible that his need for retribution is what tipped him over the edge and had him dashing head first into danger again."

And it was all too irritating for words!

"It grieves me to hear that your grandson has endured so much," said Elrond sadly. "War affects us all in different ways. Some fight, and if they live to enjoy victory, may find solace among those loved ones who remain to share it with them. Others cannot endure the pain of loss, and may soon fade with the grief they carry in their hearts. But rare is it indeed that one so young was not only victorious in his battle, but seeks to aid others in strange lands, that they need not endure the struggle he has. Truly, your grandson must be a remarkable young Man."

What? That wasn't exactly the reply she'd been hoping for. As much as the elderly witch appreciated her host's sentiment, she would much rather have heard something along the lines of 'Dash it all! That simply won't do! Let's floo to the Australian Ministry this very minute and see if we can't get a few Aurors to track the scallywag down and drag him back here this very instant!'

Although, truth be told, she was beginning to suspect that her location may not be what it seemed. It could no longer be denied that the lands were not as flat as they ought to be, if she were indeed stranded in the Outback. And there was also the odd layout of this astonishing village, so remote from any other towns or cities - not to mention the lack of modern conveniences such as radio (which even Muggles possessed). It could all mean only one thing, really. Augusta was not in Australia at all ...

She was in New Zealand!

Of course! It all made perfect sense: the mountains, the valleys, the abundant vegetation. The complete lack of kangaroos.

Very pleased that she had at least solved the mystery of her location (if not Neville's), Augusta took another sip of Arwen's favourite wine before getting back to the point.

Locating her errant grandson.

"So, my good fellows, now that you know who I am and what I'm about, perhaps you would be good enough to tell me if you've heard any mention of Neville? I realise that Gwaihir told you I would remain here until the end of your war, but who knows how long that will take? I can't possibly stay here and enjoy all the comforts that civilisation offers when he is more than likely in the thick of the action against this bothersome Sauron chap. Do you have any idea where the front line is?"

Her companion's expressions were sombre. Elrond placed his glass on the table and he studied her with his keen grey eyes.

"My Lady, I do not think it would be wise for you to leave the safety of Imladris. These are troubled times for Middle Earth, and many more dangers lie outside these borders than what you have experienced so far. The Dark Lord Sauron is an evil greater than that which even Saruman presented you with, and his armies encroach on the lands of several realms in a bid to spread his dominion. It would be wise if you remained within the shelter of the Last Homely House until the outcome of the war is determined, for I cannot guarantee your safety otherwise."

Guarantee her safety? Remain in shelter - while Neville gallivanted around Merlin knew where, placing himself in danger to save New Zealand? Certainly not! She set her jaw and favoured the well-meaning man with a keen gaze of her own.

"I am more than aware of the dangers of war and despotic Dark Lords, young man," she said firmly. "It's only been three or four weeks since our own met his death at the end of a wand - a battle at which my grandson was present and almost lost his life. So - and I say this with all due respect - if you imagine for one instant that I will cower away in a comfortable house while he foolishly places his life in danger for a battle that isn't his own, then I am afraid you are very much mistaken. Neville is the last of the Longbottoms and I absolutely will _not_ stand by and wait while my family loses its final hope for the future."

He didn't look too pleased by that, but Augusta didn't have time to debate the issue.

"I regret that your grandson has known the trials of war, Lady Longbottom. Indeed, we all wish that our children need never know the evils of such times. Yet, though I have never heard of your own Dark Lord, nor of your struggles against him, if young Neville is determined to be of aid to the People of the West - and in reaching this decision, has journeyed here by whatever means at his disposal - I do not see what you hope to achieve by following him. There are many front lines of battle in Middle Earth at present: Gondor, Rohan, even the Elven realm of Mirkwood must battle against Mordor's forces. How will you know where to begin your search? Alas, but I cannot say where your kin may be found at this time."

Botheration! Three different places where he could be? How irritating!

"What I hope to achieve is to find him and drag him back to England with all possible haste," she replied. "As far as the alarming selection of potential trouble spots goes; I suppose I shall just have to eliminate all the possibilities, one at a time, until I find the silly boy," she mused, crossing her arms in consternation.

"But, Lady Augusta," said Erestor, very alarmed, "think of the danger. What would your grandson say if he thought you were here searching for him amidst the most troubled lands of the West and placing yourself in mortal peril for his sake?"

"I have no doubt that, when he finds out I'm here, he will more than likely die of fright," she drawled. "Because when I get my hands on him, he's going to wish he'd never been born. Galloping off to magical New Zealand in a moment of utter madness - without so much as a 'by your leave' - and taking the Sword of Gryffindor with him! What does the silly boy think he's about? Obviously, he's suffering from some sort of delusions of grandeur and has made it his mission in life to scare his grandmother into an early grave. Well, I won't be having it! He needs to be found immediately and dragged back to England, where I will see to it that he spends the next few months recuperating from his deluded state on the same hospital ward as his parents!"

The bemused elves shared a brief look which spoke eloquently of their pity for the young wizard, but Augusta was not to be swayed. Neville had earned himself a right royal telling off for his uncharacteristic actions and she had every intention of delivering it - even if it meant she had to blast her way through the armies of Mordor to do so.

There was a gentle rap on the door and the topic of Augusta's journey to dangerous lands was interrupted when a very pretty girl entered to announce that her chambers were now ready.

Elrond and Erestor rose as one and the grey-eyed counsellor held out his hand to assist her to her feet.

"You are undoubtedly fatigued from your journey, my Lady, and I believe your rest is more important at present than lengthy discussions on future travels," stated the Lord of Imladris. "Elariel will show you to your room, which I hope you will find more comfortable than any offered by Saruman."

Well, that wouldn't be too difficult, would it? Anything was an improvement on that pit of despair. Best not to say that aloud though in case the charming fellow took offence. So she offered a prim smile of gratitude instead.

"As for the matter of your noble kin, I have my suspicions as to why he is here, and all may not be as it seems to you at present. Tomorrow morning after breakfast, I shall call a council with my advisors and request that you be present also, for there are things you must know which may explain his presence in our lands more clearly. Will that be acceptable?"

"Certainly. I must admit that I _am _rather tired, and idea of a warm bed sounds absolutely heavenly. You are a very decent young man to show such hospitality to a stranger. Now, if you don't mind, I'll be off to the land of nod before the hour is out. Goodnight gentlemen. No doubt I'll see you in the morning!"

She collected Spot from her host's desk, and with a gracious nod of her head, followed the pretty girl out of the room with their best wishes trailing in her wake.

And leaving the two rather befuddled elves to wonder precisely _where_ this realm of 'Nod' might be found ...

**XXX**

It was not long after the Lady Augusta retired that word was brought to Elrond of the arrival of the border scouts. Relieved that they had returned safely, he made his way to the healing room to find his sons and Glorfindel already tending the injured elf. Lindir offered a sheepish smile as Elladan bound his wound with fresh cloths.

"Adar!" Elrohir greeted his father, who clasped his shoulder and ran a healer's eye over his offspring to check for untended hurts.

"Fear not, Adar, we are well," his son said warmly.

"I am glad to hear it," Elrond replied. "When I was apprised of the situation by the Bruinen, I feared the worst."

Glorfindel looked slightly offended. "Have you no faith in your old friend's ability to watch over the elflings, Lord of Imladris?"

Three hot glares bored into the blond elf as the twins and Lindir switched their gazes from Elrond to him, and Elrond could not repress his smile.

"I see a brush with danger has done naught to temper your flair for dramatic overstatement, mellon nin," he said.

Lindir rolled his eyes. "There is naught that could temper his flair for dramatic overstatement. Indeed, it is my guess that he did not slay the Balrog in the daring manner he claims. 'Tis more likely he stumbled into the creature with a butter knife after fleeing his breakfast table, and it fell over the mountainside by mere chance. How are we to prove otherwise?"

This was greeted by a chorus of laughter. A chuckling Glorfindel slapped Lindir heartily on the (injured) arm and the wounded ellon winced sharply.

Elrond followed his son to Lindir's bed and took a seat on the vacant chair. Beside him, Elladan rechecked his patient's rumpled dressing.

"It concerns me greatly that the Enemy's forces were bold enough to launch an assault on Imladris," he stated, absently observing his son's ministrations . "How is it that they were able to locate our borders?"

"No doubt it is the work of Saruman," replied Glorfindel, sobering instantly. "Oft has the traitor Wizard been to our land. The Orcs we fought wore helms which bore the white hand that is his mark. Yet I do not know what he wished to gain by the assault; he knows that Imladris' defences are formidable."

It was clear to Imladris' ruler what the faithless Istar hoped to gain. "It was a warning from Isengard. Our defences may be formidable at present, but that will quickly change if the Quest fails. Saruman would not sit idly in his dark Tower and allow all the spoils of the North to go to the Dark Lord alone. Fool! Does he not see that Sauron will never share his power?"

A warm hand settled on his shoulder. It was Elrohir, who smiled at him in reassurance. "Do not distress yourself, Adar. Neither Sauron nor Saruman will ever cross the borders of these lands. The Quest is safe in the hands of our brother and Frodo; I feel it."

He clasped Elrohir's hand and squeezed it gratefully. "You are as wise as your Daernaneth, iôn nin. Ever do you bring comfort and hope to this father's heart. And," he continued, rising from his chair and crossing to the window, where he stood staring down at the now-empty courtyard below, "it seems, that you are not the only one to offer me hope this day."

Glorfindel grinned. "So, you have met the Green Witch?"

"Indeed I have."

"And is she not the most remarkable Istar you have ever encountered?"

Elrond thought of the extraordinary woman who had left for the 'Land of Nod' but a half hour since. Smiling, he abandoned the view to face kin and friends. "Ah, but no Istar is she," he declared, watching the astonished faces of the room's occupants with some amusement.

"Adar, I saw with my own eyes as she swooped down upon the back of Gwaihir the Windlord and shot fire from her staff into the Orcs on the other side of the River!" declared Elladan, dropping Lindir's arm in his haste to correct his father. Elrond rolled his eyes in disapproval at the shoddy treatment.

Merciful Valar. Has he not taught his sons to be gentle with fresh wounds?

"And I watched as she sent half a dozen wargs soaring through the air as if they were born to fly!" exclaimed Elrohir.

Born to fly? Not according to Gwaihir - they lacked the 'appropriate appendages'.

"Indeed, mellon nin," said Glorfindel, eager to make his lordly friend see the error of his statement. "Not two minutes after her fortunate arrival, she had slew several of Saruman's servants by use of the most alarming magical arts I have ever seen. The arrows they aimed at her simply fell from the sky before they could touch either her or the Eagle; and in retaliation for their folly, _she turned them into mountain goats_!"

Mountain goats? Impressive. Gwaihir must have been thrilled by the sudden expansion of prey for his ever-hungry offspring.

"And she tore apart several more with a wave of her staff -"

Elrond was deeply relieved that Lady Longbottom highly approved of her host. Furthermore, he made a mental note not to annoy her in any way whatsoever.

"- I have never seen an orc sob in fear before -"

Hmm. Neither had Elrond. He rather wished he had had the opportunity of witnessing it for himself.

"- and let us not forget what the Lady shouted at them in her fury -"

Ah, this should be interesting, given what she said she had been yelling at Saruman from the Tower of Orthanc.

"_Mind your manners_!" the four elves chorused in unison.

Elrond could not stop himself: he laughed.

And laughed.

Soon, the healing room was filled with the merry laughter of all five elves, and it was several minutes before they were able to control their mirth.

"Ai, Elrond. I tell you, it was one of the most magnificently absurd sights I have ever witnessed," declared Glorfindel, wiping tears of laughter from his face. "If this wondrous lady is no Istar, then what is she?"

The Lord of Imladris retook his seat by Lindir's bed and folded his hands contentedly across his abdomen. He anticipated that his revelation would stun them into silence.

"She is a mortal Witch."

He was (of course) correct. Four astonished faces gazed at him in disbelief.

Lindir was the first to recover the power of speech. "A mortal Witch? But … that cannot be. There is no such thing as a mortal Witch!"

"Ah, but some would argue that there is no such thing as a Witch at all - yet you have seen her with your own eyes, have you not?"

Imladris' resident minstrel could only nod in reply.

"Furthermore," continued Elrond (thoroughly enjoying himself), "the Lady Augusta is on a quest of her own."

Four pairs of ears hung on to his every word so (naturally) he paused to casually flicked lint from his robe while the tension in the room grew to breaking point.

Predictably, Glorfindel was the first to react. "If you do not reveal to us the reason for her quest in the next few seconds, mellon nin, I will seek out that butter knife that proved so effective against the Balrog and see if I cannot manage to 'stumble' into you also!"

Elrond's brows rose in amused disbelief. He would not dare (not in front of his sons, at least).

"We would make no attempt to stop him, Adar," confirmed Elladan, with an arch of one fine eyebrow. Elrohir nodded in support of his twin.

Traitors! So, Glorfindel's influence over his offspring was absolute. Celebrian would kill their father when next she saw him ...

"Very well, impatient ones," he relented with a laugh.

"Your rescuer, the very impressive Lady Augusta Longbottom, is on a quest to find her missing grandson."

"Grandson?" repeated Glorfindel (rather stupidly, Elrond observed). "Do you mean -"

"Yes. The lady is both a mother and a grandmother. She hails from a land where Wizards _and_ Witches are plentiful, and who wed as any other mortal would. Furthermore, she seeks the son of her son who is lost in the lands of Arda as we speak."

"Lost?"

Ai Elbereth! If the Balrog-slayer did not take hold of his senses soon, Elrond would be left with no choice but to commit him to one of the conveniently empty beds and send him into a healing sleep for the next month.

"Indeed: lost. Though ... perhaps not."

It was too much for Glorfindel. " I declare you to be the most confounding Elf of my acquaintance, Eärendillion!" he said, thoroughly vexed by his friend. "Either her kin is lost, or he is not. Which is it?"

The golden-haired scourge of Balrogs (and Imladris) was always vastly amusing when he was irked and Elrond debated whether or not he should tease his friend any further. But the frowns he was receiving from both Lindir and his sons changed his mind.

"He is lost to _her_, at least for the present. But - if my suspicions are correct - her grandson is very much 'found' to the Fellowship."

Elrohir's eyes widened in surprise. "Adar, are we to infer -"

"Yes, iôn nin. It is my guess that the Valar, in their great beneficence, have gifted the hope of all Middle Earth with a new Wizard protector. And if the young one is as remotely competent as his grandmother, they are in very safe hands indeed."

Four jaws dropped in astonishment, and Elrond relaxed back in his chair, feeling very pleased at the renewed hope their remarkable guest had brought them all.

The Fellowship of the Ring had become Nine, once more!

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

Translations:

Mellon nin - my friend

Adar - father

Daernaneth - grandmother

Iôn nin - my son

Eärendillion - son of Eärendil

_Author's Note_: I am SO sorry this is a week late, but it was a combination of factors - I had my niece last weekend (and sacrificed writing to be with her, 'cos she's my wee sweetie), I spent the remainder of it before going back to work watching the inspirational performance of BGT's Susan Boyle ( a fellow Scot!) on YouTube (listen to the track she submitted to a charity CD - it's called 'Cry me a River' and is also available on YouTube), and (naturally) when I finally got around to starting Augusta's chapter, my computer went all wobbly on me.

So I'm truly sorry. I will make sure it doesn't happen again.

Kara's Aunty ;)


	14. Horses and Broomsticks

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. and Lord of the Rings and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

**Credit: **www dot hp-encyclopedia dot com and www dot Tuckborough dot net, behindthename dot com, www dot oldenglishtranslator dot co dot uk, pdsa dot org dot uk, horseridinglesson dot co dot uk, my horse dot com, deerland dot co dot uk.

**Please review - it really is my only reward.**

*Warning for slight use of language later in chapter*

And, sorry, it's late, folks - but it is long!

**Not Quite A Maia**

**Chapter 14**

* * *

_Third Age: 30th__ February 3019_

_The Wold, Rohan_

Neville brandished his wand at the horsemen who encircled him and his friends.

And as their leader closed in, aiming his spear at Aragorn's chest, Neville fired ...

"Nay, Neville!" cried Aragorn in dismay, but it was too late.

Completely taken by surprise, the Rohirrim barely had the chance to tug at horse's reins as the jet of coloured light sped towards him. But he was not fast enough to avoid his spear being turned into a ... brush.

A very _large_ brush.

Hagrid would kill for a brush that size, actually (assuming he ever took the time to stop and groom himself which, come to think of it, Neville had only ever witnessed during the Tri-Wizard Tournament).

He grinned, feeling very pleased with himself. Molly's Transfiguration lessons were paying off! If Professor McGonagall could see him now!

Aragorn groaned as the stranger cried out in disbelief, and the circle of horsemen tightened further around them. Big blond blokes yelled in fury and many glared at the teenager with increased suspicion and hostility.

"Neville Longbottom, it was not necessary to act so hastily! Now you have set them on their guard! It will be more difficult to treat with them."

Treat with them? He rolled his eyes. Those shaggy gits had them rounded up like a herd of cows and were ten seconds from turning them into man-kebabs (or, in Gimli's and Legolas' case, dwarf- and elf-kebabs). What did the ranger expect him to do? Rip off his shirt and offer up his 'prime ribs' without a fight?

Anyway, it wasn't as if he'd cursed the twats; he'd merely offered them the opportunity of a good grooming (which, by the looks of it, they needed).

"What is this trickery?" demanded the furious leader, waving the enormous bristled brush around as if he were conducting Hogwarts' school choir.

"I ask your pardon for my young friend's hasty action, horse-lord," said Aragorn respectfully, after throwing an exasperated glance at Neville. "He is not familiar with your lands or customs and his ignorance has led him to treat strangers with caution. No harm was intended or caused: he merely wished to protect his friends."

Ignorance? Neville was bristling almost as much as the blond man's shiny new brush, a very large version of the one Gran used to spank him with on the rare occasions he'd been naughty (like the time she took him to buy some smart new robes as a reward not long after discovering his magic. Madam Malkin was fitting him for a shirt which was the most disgusting shade of grey and he made the mistake of declaring he wouldn't wear something that was the same colour as Gran's old safety knickers: she hadn't even waited to get him home before clobbering him).

_He _was not ignorant! Those blokes had surrounded them at spear-point and were closing in for the kill. There was no way he was going to stand by meekly and let them get on with it!

He was just debating the merits of hitting the not-so-honey-tongued ranger with a _Silencio_ when Gimli shuffled closer and whispered: "Still your temper, lad. Let us see what Aragorn can do to calm these wild riders."

What? _Gimli_ was preaching caution? Where was that 'slay now, speak later' attitude the teenager was becoming so familiar with?

As if reading his mind, the dwarf added: "We may deprive them of their heads _after_ his efforts fail."

Ah. That was more like it.

Soothed by his friend's more familiar attitude, Neville lowered his wand (a little) and waited to see how the riders would react.

"Who are you and what are you doing in this land?" demanded the leader, throwing the oversized brush to the ground.

"I am called Strider, and I come out of the North. I am hunting Orcs."

The stranger leapt from his horse and drew his sword before approaching Aragorn. Neville was just about to turn that into a comb too (because it was always nice to have a matching set) when the ranger motioned at him to stop. His dark head swivelled back to the blond man, who by now stood before him and was surveying him keenly.

"At first I thought that you yourselves were Orcs, but I see now that that is not true. Your raiment is different. Though that does not alter the fact that you will become the hunted yourselves if ever you overtake them. What name is Strider? It is none of Men that I have ever heard. There is something strange about you. How did you escape our sight? Are you Elvish folk?"

Escape their sight? How could four people sitting in plain view escape their sight?

"There is but one amongst us whom we call Elf. Legolas, here, is Prince of the Woodland Realm in distant Mirkwood. But we have passed through Lothlórien and the gifts and favour of the Lady go with us."

Of course. The elven cloaks Galadriel had given them. But they were supposed to shield from _unfriendly_ eyes. Were these riders hostile after all? The teenager's gaze swept the large company and he saw more than a few glaring at him as if they'd like nothing better than to stick his head on their living room walls.

Right. Better not take any chances then. Neville raised his wand as casually as possible and adopted a Gimli-style scowl (impressing the natives with a look of severe constipation).

The leader's eyes widened slightly. "Then there is a Lady in the Golden Wood, as old tales tell. Few escape her nets, they say. These are strange days! But if you have her favour, then you also are net-weavers," he said, turning a cold eye on Legolas and Gimli.

"And Sorcerers."

His gaze settled suspiciously on Neville, who stared back in challenge.

"Why do you not speak, silent ones?" the man demanded.

The dwarf gruffly addressed the well-spoken aggressor.

"Give me your name, horse-master, and I will give you mine."

The rider stared down at the dwarf. "It is for the stranger to declare himself first. Yet, I am named Éomer, son of Éomund, and am called the Third Marshal of Riddermark."

Éomer? Couldn't these people come up with normal names like Paul or John?

"Then, Éomer son of Éomund, Third Marshal of Riddermark," said the dwarf, rising from the ground and planting his walking axe firmly on the ground in challenge, "let Gimli the Dwarf Glóin's son warn you against foolish words. You speak evil of that which is fair beyond the reach of your thought and only little wit will excuse you."

The Rohirrim began to mutter angrily and Éomer's eyes blazed. He advanced further, gripping his sword tightly and regarded the axe-wielding serial-killer in scorn.

"I would cut off your head, beard and all, Master Dwarf, if it stood but a little higher from the ground."

Neville rolled his eyes. This was exactly what Gran meant by 'male posturing'.

And it was beginning to spiral out of control. Before cooler heads could prevail, Legolas sprang from the grass and had an arrow nocked and trained on the nearest rider.

"He stands not alone," the elf declared boldly. "You would die before your stroke fell."

Merlin's wand! This was ridiculous! Their friends were out there somewhere at the mercy of a bunch of raging orcs and what were the rescue party doing? Comparing the length of their ... hair. Someone needed to step in here and act like a sensible adult. Abandoning his (constipated) scowl, the teenager opted for a more reasonable approach to defuse the situation.

"Look, Mr Éomer; it's probably not a good idea for you to be going about saying things like that," he advised in an even tone. "Gimli's a dab hand with an axe, you know. And Legolas here could probably take out half your friends before you even blinked. So why don't we all just take a deep breath and try to talk like civilised people, eh? I'm sure we'll be able to sort out this little misunderstanding if we all just calm down."

There! Gran would be proud of him! Of course, _she _always made that extra effort when mediating between warring parties at the Knitting Bee. Perhaps he should take a leaf from her tin and offer everyone a cup of tea - or would that be too much?

"So you speak, boy?" the man said scathingly.

Boy? Who was he calling boy? Neville fought his annoyance for the sake of diplomacy. He would be calm. He would smile and nod and take it like a man because his missing friends needed him more then he needed to hex this hairy git.

"Your friend has given great insult to me. I am entitled to my recompense, am I not? _That_ is the way of civilised people."

Gimli growled in the background and Aragorn moved to prevent the dwarf from lashing out in anger.

"Lobbing someone's head off just because they annoyed you is a bit much, though. And, to be fair, you started it by casting aspersions on the woman he fancies."

Gimli growled again, but this time in Neville's direction.

Eh, okay. Maybe he should've phrased that differently.

"So, the Witch in the woods has taken the Dwarf's fancy?" Éomer asked in amusement, sharing a glance with the nearest riders (who rumbled with laughter). "A Dwarf enamoured of an Elven female! I did not think to see such a day."

"And you never shall, if you utter one more word against her!" spat the fuming dwarf.

Aragorn gripped him by the shoulder, refraining him from taking a swipe at the Rohirrim with his axe.

"Peace, Gimli. Let us attempt to settle this argument in a conciliatory manner."

Éomer favoured the dwarf with another amused glance, then turned his attention to Neville. "And what of you, boy? What is your business with these people? Are you their pet Sorcerer?"

Pet sorcerer? What a git! Neville's good intentions deserted him as he glared up at the smug man.

"For your information, a sorcerer is someone who harnesses occult forces or evil spirits to produce unnatural effects," he replied, drawing himself up from the grass and planting his feet shoulder-length apart. "I'm _not_ a sorcerer."

The man sneered. "Is that so? Then what is that lying upon the ground by my trusty steed? For it be not the spear I held two minutes since."

Neville stole a quick look at the man's windblown locks, sticking haphazardly from beneath his helmet, and thought it hardly surprising that the pompous git didn't recognise a brush when he saw it.

"That's a brush. You have seen a brush before? Or don't you groom your hair? And as far as I know, no one's ever tried to use a ruddy brush to harness the occult or produce any sort of unnatural effects."

Well, perhaps that wasn't entirely true. Bellatrix Lestrange had had the maddest hair he'd ever seen in his life. Perhaps she'd spent too much time back-combing it, and all the ferocious tugging had warped her brain (resulting in her downfall into the Dark Arts)?

"Insolence!" cried one of the other riders. "I say we slay him where he stands, my Lord!"

The Third Marshal of Riddermark (whatever that was) was almost puce with anger at the glib remark and Neville watched in some alarm when he raised his sword.

Crikey! The man was built like a bull _and_ he looked like he knew exactly what to do with the gleaming weapon.

Time for that matching set ...

Gimli and Legolas took their defensive stances once more as Neville raised his wand to Transfigure the sword into a nice big comb; but before all hell could break loose, Aragorn sprang between the warring parties and raised his hand.

"Your pardon, Éomer! When you know more you will understand why you have angered my companions. We intend no evil to Rohan, nor to any of its folk, neither to Man nor horse. Will you not hear our tale before you strike?"

The spell had been on the tip of Neville's tongue when the ranger pushed him out of the way to plead for a truce, and it was with some consternation that he watched the glowering blond reluctantly drop his sword arm and nod brusquely. Gimli growled in frustration as he lowered his axe, deprived for the moment of the opportunity of battle. The teenager completely sympathised with him.

Sometimes Aragorn could be such a spoilsport.

He stood between elf and dwarf in silence while the ranger spoke. Aragorn began by asking where the Marshal's allegiance lay. When assured the rider was not in collusion with the Dark Forces, he proclaimed himself (a bit too dramatically in Neville's opinion) to be Aragorn, son of Arathorn, before proceeding to rattle off a long list of his other titles: Elessar, the Elfstone, Dúnadan. Neville rolled his eyes. He was a great admirer of Aragorn's but this was hardly the time for showing off. Fortunately, the ranger ran out of names (and air) after a while, then pulled his sword from his belt for the other man to inspect.

Éomer and the Rohirrim appeared to be duly impressed. The Marshal was at first awestruck, proclaiming the days to be strange indeed when dreams and legends sprang so plentifully from the ground. But then he cast his grey-eyed gaze on Neville and frowned.

"So, Lord from the North: now we have the measure of you and two of your friends - yet what of the boy? He has not yet given his name, Sorcerer that he is."

Oh, for crying out loud, he was _not_ a ruddy sorcerer!

"The name's Neville. Neville Longbottom. And I'm a _wizard_."

"Wizards and Sorcerers - ill news I name you all!" declared a rider who sat directly behind Éomer. "Worming your way into the service of your betters, yet always plotting their downfall, that you may steal both their crowns and their land. Take heed of your heads, heir of Isildur and foreign lords, lest the devious child addle them with his arts!"

A surge of anger shot through the teenager and he flushed. What did this arrogant git know about him? Nothing!

"I'm not in the habit of 'addling' peoples' heads with my arts," he spat angrily. "But if you want, I'd be more than happy to show you what I can do with their tongues."

He pointed his wand at the man's face and was all for introducing him to the delights of a Horn Tongue hex, when Aragorn interceded.

"I will not have you speak ill against our friend, Man of Rohan," the ranger said in a deceptively soft tone. "He is no more likely to use his magic for ill gain than would Gandalf the Grey. Indeed, it is by his sword that one of the Nazgûl met its doom! Were I you, I would speak of him with more respect."

"Peace, Éothain," said Éomer, holding up a hand as the rider began to protest the ranger's claim. The tall horse-lord eyed Neville speculatively. "You say this boy slew one of the Nine?"

"Indeed. I saw it with my own eyes."

"How is such a feat possible? No Man can kill the foul servants of Sauron. How did this ... boy ... accomplish such a thing?"

If that overbearing git called him 'boy' one more time, he'd show him _exactly _how he finished off the Nazgûl.

Okay, maybe not. It would mean stumbling about the field like a novice and demonstrating to the already sceptical onlookers how he'd fallen on his backside while trying to avoid a death blow, and that would only convince them of his ineptitude as a swordsman.

"He accomplished it with the use of his mighty Wizard's sword!" declared Gimli loudly, glaring at the Rohirrim in challenge. Suddenly, the eyes of over a hundred men landed on Neville, who squirmed self-consciously.

"Indeed," said Aragorn, clapping him heartily on the shoulder. "'Twas a glorious sight to behold the swift despatch of such a fearsome creature. If ever there was a deed worthy of a song, it was his!"

Swift despatch? That wasn't how Neville remembered it. This was embarrassing. Everyone was looking at him in wonder, as if he was Harry Potter or something. Shifting uncomfortably on his feet, he attempted to redress the situation.

"Erm, well, it was nothing, really. Stroke of luck, that's all ..."

"Ever modest, lad," Gimli said, grabbing his shoulder affectionately while Legolas beamed down at him.

Sighing, he abandoned the useless attempt to dismiss their obvious admiration and hoped they would move on to other points of discussion as quickly as possible. The leader of the Rohirrim eyed him appraisingly and Neville waited for the man's (no doubt scathing) verdict.

Fortunately, Éomer's verdict was not (entirely) scathing.

"He does not seem to possess the strength to hold a sword, let alone slay one of the Nine Riders with it."

Git!

"But if the heir of Isildur himself - who roams the lands of Rohan like a vengeful legend brought to life in these dark times - says that it is so, then I must believe it. However, I know two Wizards by sight and though one is as Dark as the other is Light, neither of them have the youth of this child."

His eyes finally left the flushing wizard and landed on Aragorn. "How can you be sure that he is what he claims to be? And that his intentions are honourable?"

"Because," said Legolas unexpectedly, "the Valar themselves sent him to aid us after the passing of Gandalf the Grey."

Éomer whirled around in surprise. "Gandalf has fallen?"

"That is so. In Moria, where an evil darker than even the Nazgûl walked. He fought the terror of a Balrog and perished after slaying it."

A gasp of shock rippled through the riders. Shouts of "Curse the spawn of Morgoth," and "Valar protect us," echoed through the air.

"Of late, every visit of Gandalf Greyhame to Edoras was to bring news of strange events and his name was no longer a password to the King's favour. Yet still, it is ill news to hear of his passing! Do you, Man of the North, truly believe that this boy - who claims to be a Wizard - is fit to replace him?"

Thinking this might be a good time to show a little goodwill, Neville waved his wand at the overlarge hairbrush and soon it regained its former shape. With a quick Locomotion charm, he raised the spear and brought it floating through the silently parting crowd until it reached its owner and began to gently nudge his arm. The wide-eyed leader of the Rohirrim gazed at him in wonder before his hand closed round the weapon.

"No one can replace Gandalf and I wouldn't even try," said Neville honestly, after lifting the Locomotion charm. "But I am what I claim to be, and I'm not interested in power or ruling over people - I'd rather be in my greenhouse tending my plants, to be honest. The thing is, I know what it's like to live in fear; to watch innocence die in the face of tyranny. So when your Valar asked for my help, how could I refuse? I may not be Gandalf, but I'm not bad. And I definitely _don't_ use my magic to addle peoples' heads. Let me show you what it can do."

He raised his wand, pointing it away from the crowd so as not to alarm them, and hoped against hope that he would actually be able to pull off his very first Patronus. It was the first spell that came to his head as an effective way to prove his good intentions, for its comforting presence would help put everyone a little more at ease.

As he searched through his memory (always a tricky thing for him) to select a moment that made him truly happy, one of the visions he saw in Galadriel's mirror popped to the forefront of his mind: his beloved Gran giving the idiot Dawlish a right royal trouncing. A feeling of enormous pride and love flooded through him and he smiled widely.

That would do nicely.

Neville flicked his wand and called out in confidence. "_Expecto Patronum_!"

A large silver blur exploded outwards across the grassy plain, stunning the onlookers. It bounded several feet away, as if searching for something, before turning to bound back towards the waiting wizard. Big, hairy blonds muttered nervously all around him and several of the horses shied away, forcing their riders to grip tightly at the reins to control them. The Patronus approached with considerable speed, before it finally slowed to a steady walk.

Neville was speechless. His Patronus was a dog. A Labrador. Its tail waggled furiously as it spotted its master and ran to him.

A dog? What was all that about? He'd been expecting a king-sized version of Trevor. He didn't even _know_ any dogs!

The Patronus pooch came to a halt at his feet and sat on its hindquarters. It stared up at him curiously (probably wondering what the ruddy hell it was doing there when there were no Dementors nearby).

Oh, well. Dog it was, then. It could've been worse - Dean's was a mouse, poor sod.

"What wonder is this?" cried Éomer, mightily impressed.

"That's my Patronus, apparently," he replied, still rather shocked.

Aragorn observed closely, a smile playing on his lips. "Patronus. That is what drove the Black Rider and his beast from the sky, is it not?"

"Yeah." The question made Neville think of Molly and his face fell, wondering if she and the hobbits were safe. The Patronus, as if sensing the change in his mood, rose and pawed at his leg. Although Neville couldn't feel the physical contact of its paw, it did help to cheer him up. Molly was a formidable witch: it would take more than a group of malodorous orcs to harm her - and Merlin help them if they tried to hurt Merry or Pippin, because she'd flay them alive!

Smiling, he reached down and tried to pat his new pet, but his hand slipped through it. The Labrador appreciated the gesture, regardless, and its tail started waggling again madly.

"Well, I suppose I'll have to think of a name for you, won't I?" he said wryly. "But first, why don't you go and show the nice man what a good doggy you are, eh?"

He pointed to Éomer. "Go and say hello to a friend before you disappear."

To the Rohirrims' growing amazement, the silvery dog turned and eagerly padded towards the enormous man. Éomer's face was a picture of astonishment as it circled him, appearing to sniff at his feet (Neville fervently hoped it wasn't about to cock its leg), before settling before him and gazing quietly upwards.

"Helm's hammer!" the blond man murmured. He held out a cautious hand which the dog sniffed at. "I have never seen its equal in all my years. Its proximity lightens my heart!"

Excellent! Job done then.

The dog seemed to agree. Giving Éomer's hand one last sniff, it padded back towards Neville and gave a silent bark farewell before it dissipated into thin air.

Silence reigned for a moment or two after the Patronus' disappearance, then Éomer spoke. "I ask your pardon, young Wizard, for doubting your intentions. These are dark times for my people and we are not given to trusting strangers easily; particularly strangers who boast such powers as you have displayed."

He shared a brief look with the rider called Éothain who stared back stonily. Then he faced Aragorn again.

"Tell me, Lord, what doom do you bring out of the North?"

"The doom of choice," replied Aragorn gravely. "You may say this to Théoden son of Thengel when next you see him: open war lies before him, with Sauron or against him. None may live now as they have lived and few shall keep what they call their own. But of these great matters we will speak later. If chance allows, I will come myself to the King. Now I am in great need, and I ask for help, or at least for tidings. You heard that we are pursuing an Orc-host that carried off our friends. What can you tell us?"

Éomer's answer temporarily stunned the Four Hunters. "That you need pursue them no further. The Orcs are destroyed."

What?

With his heart racing in excitement, Neville pushed his way to the forefront and asked: "What about our friends? Did you see our friends? Are they all right?"

"Alas, young Wizard, but we saw none that were not Orc."

Aragorn opened his mouth to question the blond man further, but Neville's mind was racing. "That can't be right. If Molly took care of the orcs, then she and the hobbits would surely have made their way back to us. But they're not here. Are you sure you didn't see them? A woman and two little curly-haired hobbits with really big feet?"

"A woman? And Hobbits?" The Rohirrim had started murmuring again. "Had we seen a lady, we would not have left her body to burn with the foulness of the Orcs! And what are these Hobbits of which you speak?"

Neville didn't reply. It seemed obvious to him that Molly and the hobbits had escaped. But where were they? He remained in silent debate for a long while, contemplating their fate. Aragorn took up the tale from there, but he heard no more of it and barely noticed when the majority of the riders moved away to prepare for departure.

Where the bloody hell were they? Obviously, she had regained her wand somehow - could she have tried to Apparate the hobbits to safety? But two at once; was that possible for her, given she had only performed Apparition twice in Merlin knew how long? Or had she taken one at a time? Were the trio back at the lawn of Parth Galen, desperately trying to locate the rest of the Fellowship?

His head was buzzing with unanswered questions and it was several minutes before he was aware that Éomer was giving orders for the spare horses to be brought to them.

"What did I miss?" he asked absently of Gimli.

"They say that many of the Orcs were wandering confused when they came upon them, as if they lay under an enchantment. No doubt the Lady Molly's work. Several were already slain and those remaining fought amongst themselves. There were not many left able-bodied enough to stand defiant against so many riders. Ah, that I missed such a battle!"

Gimli paused, lost momentarily to the fever of his own thoughts as he imagined the wonder of a Weasley mother decimating the helpless enemy ranks.

"And?" demanded Neville impatiently.

The dwarf shook himself from his reverie. "Ah, yes. Also, at least one of our friends lives, for they found a token from them after they slew the Orcs. It may be that all three have escaped into Fangorn, but if that be true, then let us hope the Lady Molly's magic may protect them! The Dark Forest is rumoured to be rife with untold malice; no Dwarf would willingly chance the wrath of its trees."

"But do _they_ know the forest?" the teenager asked desperately, indicating the Rohirrim. If Molly and the hobbits were stuck in some sort of Middle Earth Forbidden Forest then they needed a guide. "After all, it's part of their country, isn't it? One of them could take us inside and help us find them."

Gimli shook his head. "Nay lad. Already is this Éored far from its Golden Hall without the blessings of its king. The riders must hasten back to explain their deeds and report the infringement of their land by the Enemy. We shall journey alone to the forest eaves and see what our own eyes may uncover from the battle it hosted."

Well that was just brilliant, wasn't it? Their friends were probably wandering through the unknown evils of hostile terrain and all of these big, scary blokes were running back home to get their knuckles rapped!

He was about to voice his disappointment when Aragorn called them over.

"Come Neville, come Gimli. Éomer has offered us the use of the spare horses. Let us take our mounts and ride as swiftly as their hooves allow in search of our friends. With good fortune, we may arrive at the Orcs' pyre before dusk falls."

Pushing his concern for Molly, Merry and Pippin aside for the moment, he followed Gimli the few short steps towards the ranger and Legolas, who stood in conversation with the leader of the Rohirrim. Éomer took the reins of a great, dark-grey horse from a very unhappy-looking Éothain and offered them to Aragorn.

"Hasufel is his name. May he bear you well and to better fortune than Gárulf, his late master!"

With a nod of thanks, Aragorn sprang upon the impressive animal, looking every inch the master horseman.

Which was when Neville began to feel nervous ...

Right.

Horses.

Funny that: when the Rohirrim rode by them a short while ago, the blisters on his feet had been practically popping with relief at the thought of alternate transport.

Now, however ...

He watched with some trepidation as Legolas was offered a smaller, feistier steed called Arod. The elf mounted it effortlessly, stroking its mane and whispering soft words to calm the restless creature.

"Come Gimli, take your seat behind me."

"Er, aren't you taking a horse of your own, then?" he asked in growing horror.

"Nay lad. You will not catch this Dwarf riding alone on so great a beast, be it freely given or begrudged." With that, the dwarf threw a fierce glance at the disapproving Éothain before grabbing Legolas' hand and being hauled onto the back of Arod behind the elf.

Which left Neville.

He gulped.

Éomer led a (huge, of course) chestnut horse towards him and offered him its reins.

Bloody hell! What was he supposed to do with those? He'd never ridden anything other than the Knight Bus in his life.

The Knight Bus ...

Well, why not? It was worth a try.

With a fresh surge of hope, Neville raised his wand high and waited.

And waited.

Hmm. Perhaps it would take a few minutes. After all, Rohan must be a fair distance from Yorkshire (or wherever the Knight Bus currently was).

He lowered his arm, then raised it again, ignoring the curious stares of the others.

"Are you well, lad?" asked Gimli, spitting out a mouthful of Legolas' cloak and craning his neck around to observe the teenager, who was turning scarlet with the effort of (apparently) exercising his arm.

"Yep. Fine. Just a minute."

The horse snorted impatiently, breaking Neville's concentration, and he watched it staring at him. It looked very much like it was waiting to chuck him off its back at the first opportunity: there was no way was he getting on it! Come on bus ...

His right arm was now pumping up and down so furiously that red sparks shot from his wand.

"Neville Longbottom, is aught amiss?" asked Éomer, frowning in concern as the teenager continued to raise and lower his arm frantically.

"Er, no, just a minute ..."

Come on bus - where the ruddy hell are you?

"Master Longbottom, we have not all day to spare," growled Aragorn impatiently. "Our friends await our aid at this very moment. Clearly, whatever you are attempting is to no avail. Now, please, young Wizard, mount your steed and let us make haste."

Sighing despondently, the teenager gave up on the Knight Bus (vowing never to ride the unreliable thing again) and faced the doe-eyed horse. It blinked, then tossed its head at him.

Great. That would be the official warning of trouble to come, then.

"This is Fæleu. She is a gentle, yet brave mare who will carry you well."

Yeah, right.

Éomer watched him in some confusion when he made no move forward. "Come. Take her reins."

Did he _have_ to?

The big brown beast pawed at the ground with its hoof.

"She grows impatient, my friend," the blond man said pointedly. "As do I."

Reluctantly, he grabbed the reins and the horse took a step towards him. Neville gulped, waiting for the attack. The beast towered above him. He craned his neck upwards. Crikey! The bloody thing was _enormous_ (and actually, from this angle, he could see right up its nose. Happily, it was horse-bogey-free)! If this was its way of intimidating him, all he could say was: it was working!

"You have sat astride a horse before, have you not?"

Hmm. Did Thestrals count? Because he'd flown one of them. But then, actual horses _didn't_ fly as a rule. So this would be the perfect time to say 'not'.

And he was about to, really he was - until he saw the look of amused disbelief on the big man's face.

"Course I have."

Which was the truth, sort of. Once, when he was ten, Great Uncle Algie took him to something called a 'fairground' in Muggle Yorkshire. It was full of deranged, coloured horses that went up and down on fixed silver poles, and round and round in endless circles, while tinny music blasted from the canopied ceiling. But the whole experience had been so disconcertingly surreal, that he'd vomited over the spinning floorboards after only two minutes.

Still, his cocky new equestrian friend didn't need to know that ...

"Then greet your horse as you would greet your friend, or she will have no faith in you."

Fair enough. He had no faith in _her_. The wizard offered Éomer a weak smile while taking a few casual steps backward. "You know ... er ... it's been a while since the last time and ... em ... I don't mind running, actually. I mean, these poor horses have had a hard day of it, what with fighting orcs and all. And I weigh quite a lot. What if it's knackered and wants a rest? Wouldn't be polite to ... aargh!"

Before he knew what he was about, Éomer had him by the scruff of the neck. He frog-marched him to the horse's flank then bodily lifted him off the ground, forcing Neville to grab on to the horse's mane as he was practically chucked onto Fæleu's back. Neville flung one leg over the side, clamped both his thighs tightly against the horse's flanks, and pinned his arms round the animal's neck as if his life depended on it.

Which it might.

"Do not fear. Rohirric horses are the strongest and hardiest of any in Middle Earth. They do not tire easily. Now, my friend, sit up and take her reins."

Neville's heart was racing. He really, really did not want to sit up. In fact, he was perfectly happy to make the rest of the journey to Fangorn with his face buried in the ruddy animal's mane - that way, he couldn't see the fall coming.

He heard, rather than saw, another horse approach him and Aragorn's voice broke through his reverie of mild panic.

"What are you doing, son of Longbottom?"

Hanging on for dear life - what did it look like?

"Erm, showing it a little affection?"

Great answer. If he hadn't been so occupied with remaining stationary, he'd have slapped his own forehead.

"Indeed?" came the dry retort. "And is this the custom from whence you hail?"

"Er, yeah. Course it is. Why? Don't you do that here?"

Aragorn's only answer was to grab him by the scruff of the neck and pull him upwards so that he sat poker-straight on the horse.

"We have no time for questionable displays of affection, Neville. Our friends await. Come, let us be on our way."

With that, the ranger gave Éomer a final nod. "You have our thanks for the use of these fine animals, Lord. Farewell, Éomer son of Éomund. May you and your riders come safely to the Golden Hall of Edoras."

Éomer dipped his head in a show of mutual respect.

"And may you know the joy of a swift reunion with your missing friends. Farewell, Lords from the North. Farewell, Nazgûl's Bane."

And with that the horse-lord left them, striding swiftly across the field and mounting his own horse (like an expert, of course) before the Rohirrim turned as one and continued on their journey.

**XXX**

Horse-riding was one of the worst experiences of Neville's life. When they first set off, his three companions had raced ahead of him across the grassy plains as if they were chasing some invisible Golden Snitch. He, on the other hand, had not been able to get the ruddy nag he was sitting on to move, and his heart almost fell as he watched Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli put ever more distance between them.

Not that he really _wanted_ to chase after them, balanced as precariously as he was on Fæleu's back. The teenager was still sitting ramrod straight, reins in hand and legs glued to the animal's flanks. Still, his need to see Molly and the hobbits and assure himself of their safety was becoming more urgent, so he thought he really ought to make a bit of an effort. But he couldn't ride for toffee and he knew it. He wouldn't get five metres before falling on his head.

Unless ...

Wondering why he hadn't thought of it earlier, Neville removed his wand from its holster and pointed it at his seat. Two seconds later, he was secured to the saddle with a Sticking charm.

Hah! He was a genius!

Very pleased with himself, he re-holstered his wand and gave an experimental bounce. His posterior remained firmly on the leather saddle. Now all he needed to do was get the horse to follow the others, which shouldn't be too difficult.

Taking a deep breath, he tugged on the reins.

Fæleu didn't move.

He tried again.

No success.

Bloody hell. At this rate, he was going to be stuck on this field until the Quest was over!

"Come on, horsey. Go!"

But Fæleu merely dipped her head and began to graze on the coarse grass.

It was ignoring him! The ruddy horse was ignoring him!

Annoyed, Neville tried snapping the reins. "Giddy up, Faithless - or whatever your name is. We don't have all day, you know."

His horse raised her head briefly, as if contemplating motion, then lowered it to the ground once more to tear at the grass.

"Master Longbottom, make haste! We do not have all day," cried Aragorn from several dozen yards away, echoing his impatient statement to the chestnut mare seconds ago.

Oh, well that was just great. Was that man a mind-reader?

"Come on, you daft pillock. Move!" Neville loosened his thighs enough to nudge at her flanks, with no success.

Excellent! The scrawny mule was making a laughing stock of him. How the ruddy hell was he going to persuade it to follow the others when it was too busy stuffing its face like some sort of four-legged Ron Weasley?

Stuffing its face ...

Five minutes later, Fæleu was racing across the land like an animal possessed, great clouds of white breath billowing from her nostrils. It wasn't long before Neville - who, Sticking charm notwithstanding, was gripping the reins tightly in his white knuckled hands - found himself mere yards from his friends.

Gimli was directly in front of him now. Hearing hooves behind him, the dwarf turned awkwardly in his seat to check on his young friend's progress. He nearly slipped off Arod in surprise at the sight of Fæleu chasing the carrot which was dangling centimetres from its nose ...

Neville flew past Arod, flashing the dwarf a massive grin; his poor steed lunging frantically at the treat that remained always _just_ out of reach.

This riding lark was _easy_! Really, he couldn't think why he hadn't done it before. Who needed Firebolts? Or Floo powder? Horsepower was the _real_ future!

Sighing contentedly, he allowed Fæleu to carry him ever forward as the Four Hunters raced through the green lands of Rohan in pursuit of their missing friends.

By the time they reached the borders of the Entwash, however, Neville's grin had deserted him. His rear was aching and his spine was rattling from the consistent jarring it endured resulting from Fæleu's desperate dash after the ruddy carrot, so he was more than happy when Aragorn called for them to halt while he took a solitary ride eastwards to investigate which trail they should follow next. Pulling firmly on the reins, Neville somehow managed to stop the horse without been thrown off. The carrot he'd charmed to bob before Fæleu's nose slowed accordingly until it, too, came to a halt.

Why hadn't he thought to put a Cushioning charm on the saddle before he stuck himself to it? Honestly, if there was a bigger idiot in Middle Earth than him, he was yet to meet them!

Legolas and Gimli dismounted their own (much nicer) steed. The elf remained by the horse's side, scratching its nose and whispering words of thanks for its toils while Gimli stomped about grateful to be rid of it for a few short minutes. Deciding that the dwarf had the right of it, Neville lifted the Sticking charm and gripped Fæleu's mane as he dragged his right leg back from her flank and slithered gracelessly to the ground. He fell on the grass in an untidy heap, aching far too much to care if the others laughed at him.

Gimli marched over and stuck out his hand. "Up you get, lad. A bit of movement should cure the ails to your rump."

"I can't."

The dwarf harrumphed loudly and planted his walking axe firmly on the ground, using it to anchor his weight as he stared down and the listless wizard.

"Whyever not?"

"I'm dying. I'm actually dying. That thing," he spat, throwing a contemptuous glance at Fæleu (who was still trying to pluck the carrot from the air), "is obviously trying to kill me. If I stand up, my spine will crumble, and it will've won."

"You have only yourself to blame for that, lad," replied Gimli, face crinkling in amusement.

Neville raised himself up on his elbows. "How d'you work that one out?" he asked indignantly.

"'Twas a foolish idea to taunt your horse with a floating vegetable all the way across Rohan. You will never master the creature if you have to bribe it to do your will."

What rubbish! How else was he supposed to get the stupid horse to move? Anyway, what did Gimli know? It wasn't like _he'd_ been riding Arod. Clinging on to the back of Legolas didn't count.

He scowled at him, and the dwarf laughed to see him so irked. "Since when have you been the expert equestrian?"

"Since you yourself sat on a four-legged beast, lad. _You_ make even a Dwarf look favourable in matters of horsemanship."

Git.

Before Neville could offer a biting retort, Aragorn returned and addressed all three.

"The main trail is confused with the passage of the horsemen as they returned; their outward course must have lain nearer the river. But this eastward trail is fresh and clear. There is no sign there of any feet going the other way back towards Anduin. Now we must ride slower and ensure that no trace or footstep branches off on either side. The Orcs must have been aware from this point that they were pursued; they may have made some attempt to get their captives away before they were overtaken."

"So you think it's looking more likely that Molly, Merry and Pippin may have ran into Fangorn?" the teenager asked, discomfort temporarily forgotten.

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. We must wait until we come upon the pyre, that we may search for more evidence of their flight."

But Neville's thoughts were racing once more with the possible location of their abducted friends. If they had went into Fangorn forest, how far in would they go? By all accounts, the place was huge. None of the trio knew the landscape surrounding it - well, perhaps Molly did a little bit after studying Manwë's maps.

Actually, come to think of it, maybe Molly, sensible woman that she was, would have taken the hobbits and fled to the safety of the forest just until they shook the orcs off? They might not have got too far in before hearing the battle with the Rohirrim, so maybe they let the two sides slug it out and crept back once it was over? After all, they weren't to know that Éomer and his men were on the side of Light, and Molly may have deemed it too dangerous to chance approaching them.

There was also the fact that Pippin had left a clue for them. Obviously, they knew (or hoped) that their friends were pursuing them. And now that their foes were slain, it would make sense for the trio to double back and await the remaining Fellowship.

That must be it! Excited by the thought, he rose onto shaky legs (with help from Aragorn and Legolas) and told the others of his thoughts, but they remained ambiguous in their response.

"Let us hope that you have the right of it, Neville," said Legolas. "But for now, it would fare us better to treat hope with caution until our eyes meet those of our friends once more."

Aragorn nodded in agreement. "Indeed. We shall see what we shall see when we arrive at the forest eaves. Come let us be on our way."

Oh well. _He_ would be cheered by the thought of their missing friends waiting impatiently for their arrival, even if the others wouldn't allow themselves the luxury of doing so. Determined to remain positive, he straightened himself up and mentally prepared himself for the ordeal of mounting his horse once more. Aragorn remained by his side as he trudged towards Fæleu (who was still trying to snatch the carrot, only this time, Hasufel and Arod had spotted the treat, too, and all three were trotting across the plain, vying for the pleasure of grabbing it).

Shaking his head in amusement, Aragorn snatched the carrot from the air. He waved it before the blushing teenager. "You must not treat your mount with such careless disregard, my friend. She will be more amenable to respect than bribes."

Yeah, right. The miserable nag wouldn't even _move_ without a decent bribe.

Aragorn snapped the carrot in three and offered a piece to each horse. Three equine heads nuzzled at his neck, hair and chest in affectionate gratitude.

Typical. What was he supposed to do now? Molly was waiting at the edge of some seriously dodgy forest for him to show up alive, well and ready to rescue her - but he'd be too busy stuck out here in the middle of nowhere, trying to get the horse from hell to move its lazy arse.

"I do not know how you travel in your own world, young Neville, but it is clear that you do not often ride," said Aragorn as diplomatically as he could.

Neville flushed again, this time with guilt. He cast a glance at Legolas and Gimli, but they were too busy mounting Arod to hear the whispered conversation.

"You should have told me earlier," the ranger continued, holding him fast in his grey gaze. "There is no shame in it. I would have taken a few moments to teach you the basics before we left the Rohirrim."

"Sorry," he mumbled in reply. "I didn't want to hold you back. I have ridden before, but it was only one time. Wasn't even a real horse, really. And I was sick as a dog afterwards - well, more like _during_."

The ranger grinned. "Then it is a wonder that you have stayed upon your steed's back as long as you have with your stomach contents intact. I am curious, though. Fæleu was racing at great speed: how did you manage to remain upon her instead of trailing behind her with your foot caught in the stirrup?"

Could this day get any worse?

"Well, I erm ... that is I ... eh ..."

Aragorn gazed at him intently.

"Oh, all right. I stuck myself to the saddle with magic. All I had to do after that was hold on to the reins. But she wouldn't move afterwards; just stood there and scoffed the grass. So I thought I'd tempt her with a carrot from my knapsack. To get her motivated, you know. And it worked, for the most part. Only now my backside's killing me. Not to mention my spine."

The ranger gave a great shout of laughter. "Ai, Neville Longbottom!" he gasped, shaking with mirth. "You are one of the most foolish, brave and imaginative people I have yet encountered. You cannot ride, yet you dare it for the sake of your lost friends. Instead of seeking instruction on the art of horsemanship, you stick yourself to a saddle with your magical arts. You cannot make your steed move, so you tempt it with food as if it were a four-legged Hobbit chasing a sack of floating mushrooms. Never did I think to know the grace of laughter on such a deadly Quest, and certainly not after the loss of Gandalf and Boromir. But you have lightened all our hearts with your presence."

"Indeed he has."

Neville looked up to see Legolas smiling down at him.

Oh, excellent. How could he have forgotten? Elves probably had superior _hearing_ as well as eyesight. Had he heard everything? How embarrassing!

"I second that," added Gimli, whose head was sticking out behind the elf's back. "I cannot remember the last time I laughed so hard before you slaughtered that innocent mouse."

Oh, great. Why did he have to bring that up? Neville Longbottom; scourge of Nazgûl and field mice everywhere. Just brilliant.

"Yeah, well that was an accident. Can we go now?" he muttered, mortified.

"Ever keen to leave when his praises are sung," said the dwarf, gazing at him fondly.

Wishing they would all just stop, the blushing teenager grabbed Aragorn's arm and yanked him to Fæleu's left flank. "Give us a leg up, would you?" he barked at the slightly mystified ranger after casting a Cushioning charm on the saddle. He placed his left foot in the stirrup while Aragorn assisted him onto the horse. Neville was just about to cast another Sticking charm when Aragorn laid a restraining hand on his arm.

"Have you already used your magic to secure yourself?"

"No. Just something to soften the seat."

"Good. Do not use anything else."

What? He wouldn't last five metres without the Sticking Charm!

"I will lead you from here on, young Neville. Do not fear. Firstly, you must attain a balanced position. To do so, ensure you are sitting in the middle of the saddle."

Reluctantly, he allowed himself to be talked through his first lesson, still highly miffed that he couldn't rely on the safety of his beloved Sticking Charm.

Oh, well. So be it. Right, where was he? Ah yes. Middle of the saddle ...

Well, to be honest, the saddle was only so big. Surely he was sitting in the middle of it already?

Fortunately, Aragorn agreed.

"Now, bend your legs slightly and allow the balls of your feet to rest on the bars of the stirrups."

Balls of feet. Stirrups. Got it.

"Good. And your legs should rest flat against the saddle, do not tauten them."

Legs relaxed. All right, got that too.

"Make sure your heels are level with your hips, then sit straight with your head facing forward."

Hold on a minute ...

"But you weren't doing that - and neither was Legolas. You were leaning over your horse's neck. Why do I have to sit a straight as an arrow, when you can hang over the horse and look really cool?"

"I do not know what you mean by 'cool' - I did not feel the chill of the air very much at all. But do not forget that both Legolas and I have many years' experience on horseback, while you," Aragorn jabbed his finger into Neville's leg, and raised his eyebrows reproachfully, "do not. Therefore, for the remainder of this journey, you will concentrate on remaining on your horse, while we concentrate on 'leaning' over ours and searching for Orc tracks. Is that clear?"

Neville nodded sheepishly and kept his mouth shut for the rest of his improvised lesson. Once finished, Aragorn whispered a few words into Fæleu's ear and left to mount Hasufel, beckoning for the teenager to follow directly behind him.

Trying desperately to remember everything he'd learned, he urged Fæleu forward with a gentle but firm kick of the heels and a hopeful "Walk on." At first, it didn't look as if the stubborn nag would obey, but just as he was getting ready for a firmer kick, it moved forward.

Success! Neville could have cheered, and would have too, if he hadn't been so busy trying to hold his reins above the withers, or keeping his thumbs forward, knuckles down, relaxing his forearms, keeping his legs bent, sitting with his back straight ...

Crikey! How the ruddy hell did _anyone_ ever manage to remember all of this? It was nothing short of a nightmare! Do this, don't do that, sit here, point there, don't jerk, keep calm, be confident. Aragorn was having a laugh, surely? Potions with Snape was easier than this!

Still, at least he was moving. Every step the horse took was a step closer to Molly. So when Aragorn felt confident enough with his progress to pick up the pace, Neville gritted his teeth and urged Fæleu to follow suit, longing for the time when he had once known the safety of an out-of-control broomstick …

**XXX**

It was early evening when the Four Hunters arrived at the glade before the forest eaves. What had recently been a large fire was now a small mountain of glowing ash which smouldered in the evening air. The stench was awful. Beside it, the head of an orc was impaled on a Rohirric spear, looking very much like the world's ugliest lollipop. Neville's lip curled in disgust. Much to his dismay, however, there was no sign of either the Molly, Merry and Pippin. If they had been hiding behind the trees, they should have spotted their approach by now and come rushing out to greet them with open arms (at least in the witch's case).

He pulled gently on Fæleu's reins and, to his relief, the horse stopped. Taking Aragorn's lead, he dismounted and (unlike the ranger) hobbled across the glade, searching the ground for clues of their missing friends. But though they searched until dusk fell, none of the four found any further clues to the whereabouts of Molly and the hobbits. The only other thing of note they had seen was the burial mound of the three Rohirrim warriors whose horses had carried them there.

With sinking spirits, Neville joined Legolas as they took shelter for the night under a spreading chestnut tree some distance from the battle field. Gimli gathered wood for a small fire and Aragorn stopped briefly by the impromptu grave of the fallen Rohirrim to pay his respects.

"Do not despair, Neville Longbottom," said Legolas as the teenager sank awkwardly to the ground. "That we have found no token of our friends may be a blessing for it means they may not have perished with the Orcs. Indeed, Éomer himself said that neither he nor his Éored encountered either Hobbit or woman when they battled the Enemy. Take heart that they may have been liberated and fled."

Neville appreciated the elf's words, but as he glanced at the gloomy trees of the darkening forest, he could take little comfort from them. "Yeah, you're probably right." he replied, rubbing at his stiff legs. What was wrong with him? He knew the truth of Legolas' words. Molly was a fierce protector. Plus, she still had her knapsack, so if they were trapped in the woods, she'd probably erected one of the tents and set the wards. In fact, for all he knew, all three were probably inside it right now, stuffing their faces with lamb chops and creamy mashed potatoes.

With mint dressing.

His stomach rumbled in protest.

What he wouldn't give for a lovely big pork chop. He'd maybe forgo the mint dressing for a nice thick gravy. And roast the potatoes, instead of mashing them.

His stomach rumbled again.

Merlin, he was starving!

Unhooking his knapsack, he opened it and rifled through for some lembas just as Aragorn returned. Gimli followed behind the ranger and dropped a pile of dead wood on the ground. A few minutes later, a small fire was crackling merrily away and Neville passed round the waybread. Soon, all were silently munching on the flaky pastry.

Legolas suddenly broke the silence. "Look! The tree is glad of the fire!" he said pointing up at the spreading boughs.

Curious, Neville's gaze followed the elf's finger and he saw that the tree did, indeed, appear to have stretched its branches towards their little blaze. How strange.

The others fell silent again as they warily contemplated what other surprises Fangorn may afford them. As darkness spread its cloak over the sky and the forest plunged even further into gloom, Legolas and Aragorn began to discuss the possible dangers contained within it. Neville, however, stared at the tree in silent contemplation, wondering if he could catch it moving. Perhaps it had only been a figment of the elf's imagination? After all, everyone was knackered after their marathon sprint across (what must surely be) half of Middle Earth.

Anyway, who ever heard of a tree trying to reach a fire? Seemed a stupid thing for it to do, what with it being made of wood and all ...

"Do trees in your world normally move?" he asked absently, staring at the brown leaves which seemed to rub together as if trying to warm themselves. Probably just the wind ...

"Nay, not normally," confirmed Aragorn. "But this forest has an ill reputation for strange happenings. Many tales are told of it in Gondor and elsewhere. I would dismiss them as little more than fables were it not for the warning of Celeborn. Fangorn holds some secret of its own, but what it is, I do not know."

"But you don't think they can actually _move_, do you? I mean, I've seen a lot of funny things back home, but even I've never seen a tree that moves."

Then again, maybe he had. The Whomping Willow was, after all, a major feature of Hogwarts' school grounds. Perhaps Aragorn's tale wasn't so strange after all.

Gimli gazed upwards at the branches. "There are those who say they can move more than their branches, young Wizard. I have heard tell of trees that walk."

Walk? Now that was a bit too much. Was Gimli pulling his leg?

Neville stared at the dwarf, waiting for him to break into a teasing grin, but Gimli's face remained solemn and suspicious as he eyed the towering branches.

"But how could that be possible? Trees need to dig their roots deep into the ground - they need to be anchored, or how else could they stand? They'd just topple over. Not to mention the fact that they absorb water and other nutrients through the soil. They wouldn't be able to do that if they went stomping all over the place with their roots trailing behind them. And what about legs? Trees don't have legs, so they'd have to hop."

Wow! That was a thought: a hopping tree. Professor Sprout would kill to see that.

Come to think of it, so would he.

The possibility of meeting a moving, walking or (hopefully) hopping tree within Fangorn was enough to banish any fear the forest previously held for him. Enthralled at the countless possibilities within its eaves, he tore another piece from his lembas and tried to peer as far as he could into its depths, wondering what his chances were of spotting one out for a stroll.

"You ask a deal many strange questions, lad," grumbled Gimli, sparing him a puzzled frown. "Man, Elf and Dwarf sit here in wary silence of the possible evils of this tree-ridden forest, and you wonder how they function without their roots in the earth?"

"Gimli, all forests are 'tree-ridden'," laughed Neville. "That's what makes them forests. And anyway, I love plants, so the possibility of a walking tree is just about the most exciting thing I could imagine. I mean, think about it: _a walking tree_! Isn't that _great_?"

Legolas and Aragorn shared a laugh at the bushy dwarf's look of disgust. "Nay, it is not. 'Tis unnatural! A tree has no business walking about the earth like a Dwarf or a Man. It should remain where nature intended it to be; still and silent in its woody borders - and far away from Dwarven reach!"

"Ah, that's right. You're not a big lover of trees, are you? You don't know what your missing. Does he, Legolas?"

Neville glanced at the elf for confirmation, but the graceful being was gazing silently and intently over the teenager's shoulder.

"Legolas?"

He did not reply. Instead, he sprang from the ground and Aragorn leapt up beside him. "Legolas, what do your keen eyes see?"

The elf held a finger up to his lips as Neville and Gimli began to twist around to peer at the forest behind them.

"Speak softly, Aragorn," he said in a low voice. "It is not what my eyes see, but what my ears hear. Listen!"

All four strained their ears but only the elf seemed to hear anything.

Until Aragorn heard it too.

"By the Valar! Do my ears deceive me?" he hissed.

"What? What is it? I can't hear a thing."

"But who is the other?" Aragorn whispered, dousing the fire with his foot while Gimli and Neville exchanged confused glances.

"I know not. But they are no friend of ours. Quick, take up arms and prepare to fight!" Legolas ordered, snatching his bow from where it leaned against the chestnut tree and nocking an arrow.

"Is it the orcs?" demanded Neville, unsheathing his wand while they stormed across the glade towards he knew not what.

Aragorn shook his head as they ran. "I do not think so, but I cannot say for certain."

Could he be any less helpful? What was it? One of the hopping trees, perhaps? He hoped his friends didn't attack it; who knew what damage an angry fifty foot tree could do.

"I still can't hear anything! Gimli, can you hear ..."

His words were lost as a bright flash lit the edge of the forest. A deep voice boomed out from the eaves, angry and powerful. The very air shook and all four were hurled to the ground as an invisible wave swept the feet out from under them.

"That was magic!" wheezed Neville from amidst the long grass, after regaining some air into his lungs. "But it feels funny, not like any magic I've felt before."

Nobody answered, so he rotated his head gingerly to the right to see how everyone was faring. Gimli was furiously trying to push Legolas off his chest.

"Get up, you pointy-eared nuisance. I am not your bedroll!"

Aragorn had already risen and shook his head dazedly. He had just managed to stumble across to Neville and reach out a hand with which to pull him upright when another wave of magic toppled him over again. The teenager gasped in alarm, frantically scrambling to get out of the way, but he wasn't quick enough and soon the ranger's six and a half feet frame was resting over his face.

"Grrf! Grrf!"

Aragorn, still rather stunned from the last wave of noisy magic, wasn't in too much of a hurry to relinquish the mercifully soft spot he had the great fortune of landing on until it slapped him on the ribs. He rolled over and a very relieved Neville sprang up, coughing and spluttering. The ranger's armpits were, quite possibly, the worst thing he'd _ever_ tasted. First thing he was going to do whenever they got to a decent river was force him to take a bath - or else!

The mysterious deep voice could be heard more clearly now: whatever it was, it was coming their way. Neville reached towards his holster for the wand, but it was empty. Where the ruddy hell ...? Of course. He'd already unholstered it. Which meant it was lying on the grass somewhere ...

He dove back to the ground, frantically groping in the darkness for his cherry wand while the others resumed their chase across the glade. "Wait for me!"

A cry of fury emitted from the eaves, followed by another sweeping wave of the odd magic. Fortunately for Neville, he was already on the ground. The same couldn't be said for Gimli, Legolas and Aragorn. Three cries of deepest frustration echoed in the night as, once more, all three went flying backwards.

Who the bloody hell was causing that? What, or who, where they aiming for? Was it a deliberate attack on the four friends? And where the ruddy hell was his _wand_?

"Curse this blasted forest to oblivion!" yelled the angriest dwarf in Middle Earth as, once more, Gimli pushed his elven friend from his chest. "And curse you too, Legolas, if you do not remain at least ten leagues from me while I run! I will not break your fall again!"

"Can anyone see my wand?" yelled Neville, still groping frantically in the grass.

"The horses!" cried Aragorn, as the loud whinnies of their three mounts added to the confusion of the night. "They are breaking their tethers!"

What the bloody hell did he want _him_ to do about it? He couldn't do anything without his wand!

A scream of anger, now very close, rang through the air and he raised himself on his knees to look over his shoulder. There! Someone - or something - in a great hooded cloak dashed from the cover of the trees. The figure turned and raised a long, white stick in the air, pointing it upwards at the treetops. It emitted a bright, white flash which raced into the sky and exploded, sending a wave of energy rushing through the air. Neville toppled onto the grass once more.

Great! The enemy, or whoever that was, was less than forty feet away and what was he doing? Chewing the cud like a ruddy cow! Instead of rising again, he stretched himself out on the grass and began to sweep his arms out to each side in wide arcs, hoping to locate his wand quicker. Why hadn't he paid more attention in class when Professor Flitwick was teaching them wandless magic?

"Neville Longbottom! This is no time for swimming!" barked Aragorn in disbelief when he spotted the teenager trying (apparently) to stay afloat in the tall grass. "We have need of your aid!"

"I'm not swimming!" he cried in defence, glaring over his shoulder at the ranger who was picking himself off the grass (again). "I'm trying to find -"

His hand skimmed over a smooth, cylindrical object lying amidst the tall grass. "- my wand!" he exclaimed, almost dizzy with relief. Grabbing it, he pulled himself off the ground and red sparks shot from the cherry wood tip.

"_Longbottom_?" screamed a deep voice in accusation. The teenager whipped around to see the cloaked figure staring at him in fury. "Longbottom!" the figure cried again, hatred radiating from every pore of his being as he raised the white stick he grasped in his hand.

"It is Saruman!" cried Legolas. "Do not let him work his magic!" The elf fired a quick shot with his bow, but the figure directed it harmlessly away from himself and it thudded into a tree before he began to advance on the very startled younger wizard.

"I will wipe the name of Longbottom from the face of Middle Earth!" yelled the figure, before pointing his stick at Neville and firing.

"Everybody, DOWN!" Neville cried, too busy erecting a Shield Charm to wonder why this mad stranger hated him so much. White light shot from the tip of his adversary's wand, then bounced off the teenager's glowing shield and rebounded backwards - directly into the cloaked figure. The man was lifted bodily off the ground by the force of it and hurled fifteen feet into the air past their terrified mounts.

All three horses were practically frothing in panic as the new arrival soared past them (screaming all the way) and Neville could see they had almost dragged themselves free of their pickets.

"_Stupefy_!" he yelled, hitting each one in turn. They froze on the spot as all four friends dashed towards the fallen enemy.

But the enemy was not yet finished. Springing from the ground with alarming speed, the man whipped round, still clutching his oversized wand still firmly in hand.

Well, it was typical, wasn't it?

The furious wizard raised his wand again and a jet of flame issued from its tip, heading directly towards Neville.

Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli - who were several yards nearer the stranger than he was - dove for cover as it flashed inches away from them on its way to the intended target.

Thankful that he'd had the foresight to stun the horses, Neville lashed out with his own wand and extinguished the fire with a well-aimed Aguamenti. He raced towards the figure, determined to discover why he had it in for him (before he hexed the git into oblivion). But as he got close enough to catch a glimpse of the other wizard's face, he almost tumbled to the ground again.

Great balls of Fiendfyre! _That_ was Saruman? No wonder the git was angry …

For Saruman's face was green. Actually _green_. And equally stunning was the fact that his flowing hair, now revealed in all its hoodless glory, was an oddly bright shade of yellow (which reminded Neville very much of the kitchen he shared with his Gran back in Yorkshire). As if that wasn't bad enough, he could almost swear that the man's beard was ... orange?

"Bloody hell, mate," Neville said, transfixed with astonishment a few yards from the extraordinary man. "Couldn't you just have decided on one colour and went with it? Surely you realise how much you clash with ... well, yourself?"

A scream of utter fury issued from the glowering man's face, and Neville thought he might have been flushing with anger (although it was hard to tell under that ghastly shade of green). The sound of his rage was enough to pull the teenager from his shock, but he was not quick enough to stop the other wizard catching him off-guard. Before he realised what was happening, Saruman had him floating away from the ground and, with one mighty shove from his giant wand, sent him spinning through the air towards the nearest tree trunk.

"Neville!" cried Legolas in alarm, trying to grab on to his feet as he flew past his friends' heads. It was to no avail.

The harsh bark of Saruman's ugly laughter followed him as he sped towards a very unpleasant fate. He threw up his hands in a vain effort to protect his face, but before he could hit the tree, a jet of violet light raced towards it, colliding with the trunk mere seconds before he did. The result was that Neville did not smash himself to pieces, but instead was enveloped in a soft cushion of air which carried him safely to the ground.

Bloody hell! That was close. He hadn't even realised he'd shot a Cushioning Charm off! He'd been thinking about it, but had been rotating so much he couldn't point his wand with any accuracy. He must have done wandless, non-verbal magic!

He was an absolute _genius_!

Thrilled at his sudden, inexplicable rise in power, he pivoted on his heel and made a mad dash for his enemy once more, ready to hex the walking colour chart to pieces. But before he could return fire with a really good hex, the reason for his salvation became apparent: a loud cry of rage pierced the night air and all eyes swivelled to the forest eaves as a dark blur shot out from the cover of the trees. Yet another new arrival began to cast spells, this time at the now-defensive form of Saruman.

"KEEP ... YOUR ... HANDS ... OFF ... MY ... BOY ... YOU ... ANIMAL!" yelled a familiar voice, following each word with a hex that made the wizard scream in pain.

"_Molly_!" cried Neville ecstatically. "Molly! I knew you'd be here! I knew it! Aragorn; didn't I say she'd be here?"

Aragorn was too stunned to answer. In fact, all his friends had stopped in their tracks to gaze in stupefied awe at the spectacle of the matronly witch swooping through the air on what was, unmistakably, a broomstick.

"Take that, you unspeakable bastard!" she yelled as Saruman fled into the forest. He yelled in agony as her spell hit home and a pair of antlers shot from his head.

Gimli almost collapsed in shock.

Turning on his heel, the enraged wizard threw a final ball of energy from his staff. It almost clipped the broomstick, but Molly managed to dodge it before it could send her tumbling to the ground.

"Molly! Where are the others?" shouted Neville in a fever of excitement.

"Not now, dear!" she cried, turning the broom around to follow Saruman who was once again making a dash for the trees. A jet of blue light issued from her wand and seconds later the four friends heard a scream of absolute horror issue from the wizard's mouth. Unfortunately, the dark wizard was too far away now for them to see what she had done to him.

Molly finally stopped chasing her prey, whizzing to a halt just before the edge of the forest as Saruman's hurried footfalls faded from the range of even elven ears. "And don't let me catch you sniffing around my friends again, or I'll make you rue the day you were born!" she yelled in a final warning. With a deep sigh of satisfaction, the red-haired witch leaned slightly to the left and allowed the broomstick to carry her back to her friends. She floated gently to the ground and hopped off the shabby looking broom before rushing over to Neville and throwing herself at him.

"Oh, it's so good to see you again, dear! I've been imagining all sorts of things!" she exclaimed, crushing him in one of her wonderful motherly hugs.

Not that he minded. Being hugged by Molly was what he imagined being hugged by his own mum must be like and he relished it as he returned the embrace.

"Bloody hell, Molly. I'm not half pleased to see you again!" he declared, breathing in the comforting scent of her tweed coat and Lovely Lilac shampoo.

"Language, dear!" she said, breaking the embrace and waggling her finger at him. She straightened his shirt and smoothed his cloak before whispering: "Do you know about poor Boromir?"

He nodded sadly. "We buried him before we followed you."

"And what about Frodo and Sam? Are they all right?"

"They crossed the river and made their way alone to take care of … _it _…while we were all fighting."

"What? They're going to Mordor alone?" she hissed.

"Molly, trust me when I tell you that it's for the best," he replied, recalling the effect of the Ring on their fallen friend before the elder hobbits fled across the Anduin to complete their mission alone. "I promise you, it's better off where it is."

She watched him carefully, attempting to gauge the strength of his conviction and, seeing the steely glint in his eye, nodded.

"If you say so, dear."

With that, she smiled brightly and turned to greet others. Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli rushed over to welcome her back. Cries of "Praise the Valar for your safe delivery!" and "Wondrous Lady, what a sight for Dwarven eyes you are!" rang through the air. The matronly witch's eyes misted over at the enthusiasm of her welcome.

"My Lady, do my eyes deceive me or is that a homely _broom_ you flew upon?" spluttered Aragorn, eyes popping in disbelief as his gaze swung from broomstick to witch.

"Did _my_ eyes deceive_ me_, or does the traitor Wizard now sport _antlers_ from his head?" demanded Gimli.

"How did you escape the Uruk-hai, my Lady? And how did you come upon Saruman? Were you not taken to Isengard?" enquired Legolas impatiently.

"Boys, boys, boys!" she cried, laughing and holding her arms up. "One thing at a time." She approached each one and gave him a brief hug, stunning them all into silence (Gimli blushed like a teenage girl).

"Now," she said, satisfied that they had finally stopped talking. "No doubt you're wondering where Merry and Pippin are. Don't worry; they're perfectly safe. In fact, I'll be happy to tell you all about it once we get a fire going. And I think a nice cup of tea and a chocolate biscuit are in order, too. So let's sit down. Oh, and Neville?"

The teenager stepped forward eagerly, happy to hear her brisk, matronly voice again.

"Do be a dear and lift the Stunning spell from the horses? Maybe hit them with a Cheering charm to counter their recent fright? I could hear the poor dears whinnying in terror from inside the forest."

"Course I will. Anything you want. It's bloody brilliant to have you back again, Molly!"

Which it was. He hadn't felt this good since Gran bought him his very own wand.

"It's lovely to see you too, dear; but if you don't watch your language, you'll be spitting soap bubbles for the next hour."

The feeling of enormous relief and dizzy euphoria at their reunion was enough to take the bite from her reprimand and he practically floated towards the frozen horses to carry out her instructions. Soon, the animals were happily tearing at the grass without a care in the world and he joined the others just as Gimli relit the small fire.

"Is it wise to remain here while the Enemy lurks in the forest?" the dwarf asked, regaining his gruff normality after the first wave of joy at seeing the witch had finally ebbed.

Molly dug through her knapsack and produced five flowery mugs which she proceeded to fill with hot tea from her wand. "Oh, I wouldn't worry about him, dear. He'll be in far too much discomfort to be of any bother to us for the next few days."

"How can you be so sure, my Lady?" queried Aragorn, blowing on the steaming mug she had handed him then taking a cautious sip.

"That last hex I hit him with is one that's handed down from every mother to daughter in the Wizarding community. It's called the Burning Serpent and it gives over-amorous boys a very nasty burning itch on their, erm ... well, their manly bits. Very handy for fending off unwanted advances. It'll take days to wear off. No doubt he's looking for the nearest body of water as we speak."

She blushed as all four males erupted with laughter.

"Ai, Lady Molly!" gasped Aragorn between snorts. "Truly, you are one of a kind! The 'Burning Serpent' indeed!"

Neville was torn between mirth and horror. He'd never heard of a hex by that name before and was suddenly hugely relieved at his single status. Imagine if he had a girlfriend back home and she pulled that one out of the bag just as he leaned in to kiss her? Crikey! It didn't bear thinking about!

Molly beamed at their happy faces.

"Well, boys. Now that we've established how completely safe we are, you might want to hear the rest of my news. I won't bother with the first few days because that was mainly running. Not very exciting, really."

Not very exciting? Only Molly would describe her brutal abduction and subsequent journey over several hundred miles of rough terrain as 'not very exciting'.

Ignoring their astonisheed faces, she continued with an account of the more recent events of earlier that day.

"- and once I'd persuaded one of the orcs to let me unbutton my coat, Varda's handy little necklace managed to stun enough of them for me to easily retrieve my wand. After that, freeing the hobbits and hiding in the forest was child's play - or it was until several of them recovered enough to follow us," she finished.

"The Hobbits: you spoke of Merry and Pippin and say that they are safe. Yet where are they?" Aragorn enquired as Molly sipped at her tea.

"I left them with a nice new friend I met in the forest. Oh, don't worry, dear," she said hastily, patting a very concerned Legolas on the hand. "Treebeard is a very nice ... tree. He promised to take good care of them while I took care of the orcs that were chasing us."

Once again, the motherly witch managed to stun all four males into silence. Neville was the first to break it.

"You left them with a nice _tree_? Who promised to take care of them? Molly, are you sure Saruman didn't hit you with a Confundus or something?"

She glared at him, huffing with exasperation. "Of course he didn't, dear! I didn't run into the ghastly dark wizard until _after_ I left the hobbits. Treebeard is a real tree who walks and talks, albeit very slowly. Then again, the fact that he's a tree and can walk or talk at all is impressive in itself, so perhaps I shouldn't really complain about his speed, or lack of it."

Gimli fingered his axe nervously. "I knew it! The forest is crawling with trees! Or perhaps I should say that the trees are crawling through the forest. 'Tis unnatural I say!"

"Oh, don't be so silly, dear. It's no more unnatural for them than walking and talking is for you or I. Anyway, Treebeard was rather surprised when we stumbled into him - literally stumbled into him! Poor Pippin got a very nasty bruise after hitting his little head on the trunk. After the shock of each other's discovery wore off, he demanded to know who we were and what we were doing running through his forest. He was a bit suspicious of us at first, but we managed to explain that we'd been kidnapped by orcs before he had the chance to flatten us. Well, he was very unhappy to hear that Saruman had ordered our kidnapping, and even more so when he found out the stupid man was concocting a plan to overthrow Middle Earth! Speaking of Saruman: did you know he wants to execute me for some 'great affront' I've supposedly given him? I had no idea what was going on when I heard that. Still don't, actually. Anyway, where was I?"

"You were explaining how you told this wondrous Tree of your plight," offered Legolas, looking very impressed at the thought of Treebeard. Gimli rolled his eyes disdainfully.

"Ah, yes. When he heard that, and discovered that I was a witch who was to be put to death at Saruman's command, he got very angry. He offered to take the hobbits to the safety of his home and speak with his fellow ... oh, what was that word he used? Tents, I think -"

"Ents," corrected Aragorn with a smile.

"- exactly! He's going to take them to a meeting with his fellow Ents to discuss Saruman's 'un-wizardly conduct', as he called it. He was going to take me, too, but there were so many of those horrible orcs following us that I had to stay behind and get rid of them so the hobbits and Treebeard could get away safely. Anyway, I knew you'd be following us and I couldn't stay away from Neville any longer. I needed to know he was all right."

She smiled fondly at the teenager, who flushed in embarrassment.

"So, I stayed behind and managed to take care of all the remaining orcs - or so I thought. I was just looking for a clearing large enough to dispose of their remains when I heard voices. I Disillusioned myself and slipped in their direction -"

Legolas interrupted her. "Beg pardon, Lady Molly: _Disillusioned_ yourself?"

Neville answered for her. "It's a spell that makes you blend in with your surroundings. Very handy for avoiding captors."

"Or listening to unsuspecting dark wizards," Molly added with a twinkle. "So, I hid behind a tree when I finally found them and what do you think I saw? One of those ugly creatures talking with a very suspicious-looking man! The orc called him 'master' and 'my Lord Saruman', so I knew straight away that this was the awful man who'd ordered our kidnapping!"

"So you fought him and chased him to the edge of the forest, where he came upon us," said Gimli.

"No, dear. I stayed where I was and spied on them. Saruman demanded to know why they hadn't arrived with his prisoners yet. He was extremely angry at having to leave Isengard to look for the orcs and his prisoners himself. The orc - well, it was an uruk, actually, as I found out a few days ago - told him that we had escaped. Saruman was livid. Well he would be, wouldn't he? He started shouting at the stupid creature, telling it how it was incompetent and how fed up he was with idiots ruining all his careful plans. Then he whipped out a knife and shoved it in its stomach before storming off in search of us. But the creature didn't die immediately, so I nipped over to it and, er, 'suggested' it tell me what his plans were. It was a very obliging uruk."

Aragorn frowned. "Obliging? No servant of Saruman, even close to death, could ever be called 'obliging'. What arts did you employ to encourage it to speak so freely?"

Neville had a fair idea what she had done. An Imperio, if his guess was correct. The thought of her using an Unforgivable was like a dose of ice cold water. Still, she hadn't used it for evil purpose and it wasn't as if she'd Crucio-ed the git. Had she?

He looked at the round face of his Guardian with its twinkling brown eyes and rosy cheeks. No. She would never use _that_ spell. Not when she knew how much the thought of it turned his stomach, even if it was cast on a miserable orc.

"I politely suggested it should talk and it agreed to do so, that's all. Best you know no more than that," she said evasively, refusing to go into further detail. Aragorn did not look entirely thrilled with her answer, but there was little he could do to encourage her to elaborate when she point-blank refused to.

"And what did the creature say?" demanded Gimli, not particularly caring what horrors she had inflicted on the uruk before its demise as long as it shared Saruman's plans with her.

"Well, apparently Saruman has a magic stone in his tower that he uses to speak with the Dark Lord Sauron. They're in collusion to overthrow the western lands, though I believe we already knew that. But what Sauron doesn't know, is that Saruman is looking for the Dark Lord's 'mighty weapon' himself, as the creature called it. Well, it's obvious he means you-know-what. So he must be thinking that if he can get it for himself, he'll be able to rule Middle Earth alone. That's why he kidnapped two of the hobbits - he knows that one of their kind carries it. I also found out that Saruman has created a huge army which he's sending to strike at a place called Rohan in the next week or so. It's to be his first real blow against the West and he was hoping to have the ... thing ... before he proceeded with his attack."

"But he does _not _have the weapon," mused Aragorn aloud. "It is out of his reach and will remain so. Frodo is beyond his grasp now."

The ranger fixed Molly with his steady grey eyes. "And this army: did the Uruk say how large it was?"

"'Ten thousand strong' were his exact words," replied the witch solemnly.

"Ten thousand? Bloody hell! That's bigger than Voldemort's!"

She spared him a frown. "Yes, I know that. And _language_, dear - or have you forgotten what I said earlier?"

No. He hadn't. But having his mouth scrubbed out with soapy water wasn't nearly as alarming as the thought of the massive army Saruman had hidden at Isengard.

"So many!" said Aragorn, rising to his feet and pacing before the fire.

Legolas' fair face was a picture of concern and even Gimli looked troubled (despite the fact he would have been happy to chop Éomer and his band of hairy Rohirrim into pieces earlier that day).

"Rohan must be warned, Aragorn," the elf said, watching the ranger as he paced to and fro before him. "We can do nothing now to control the success of Frodo and Sam's mission, other than beg the Valar to protect them. But we can do something to help the horse-lords. Théoden must know of this threat to his people."

Aragorn stopped pacing and gazed down at all four of his friends, considering their expressions.

"I had not known what our course would be after we rescued the Lady Molly and the Hobbits, for their quick return has been the only concern on my mind these past three days. But when you came to us, my Lady, and we saw that you were well and you assured us of Merry and Pippin's safety, I had thought of riding to Gondor."

"Gondor?" echoed Gimli incredulously. "What use can we be there when our help is needed here? It may take us longer than a week to reach the White City and by that time Rohan may be under siege!"

"Peace, son of Glóin, for I have not yet finished," Aragorn stated, holding a hand up to ward off further interruption. Gimli stopped protesting and waited for the ranger to continue.

"Now that I have heard Lady Molly's intelligence, however, I cannot in good conscience leave the people of Rohan to their fate. Therefore, I say we leave for Edoras at first light. Théoden King must be warned at the earliest opportunity."

"Good lad!" cried Gimli, pleased at the decision, and everyone else nodded in agreement or offered words of support for the ranger's decision.

But Neville had one final question before they started setting watch shifts for the night.

"What about Merry and Pippin?"

Aragorn retook his seat across from the teenager. "They will remain safe with the Ents of Fangorn. Treebeard is the shepherd of the forest, its Guardian, very much like the Lady Molly is to you. If he promised to keep them safe, then safe they shall be."

"I know that. But what about afterwards? We are coming back for them, aren't we?"

"Be not alarmed, son of Longbottom. I am not in the habit of abandoning my friends," chided the ranger gently.

The teenager flushed.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to suggest you would. It's just, well, I don't like leaving people behind, and we've come so far to rescue them. Some of my Muggle-born friends went missing during my last year of school and not all of them have been found. I don't know what happened to them after they were taken to the Ministry - nobody does. So I'll just feel better when I can see Merry and Pippin again, that's all."

A look of understanding dawned across Aragorn's face and he regarded the teenager with gentle sympathy. "I swear to you that you will see them safe and well again, Neville Longbottom. We shall return for the Hobbits before we depart for Gondor."

"Don't worry, dear," added Molly, with a gentle squeeze of his arm. "Treebeard will take perfectly good care of them until we return. All I have to do when we come back is send him a sign that it's safe and he'll bring them to the last place I saw him."

"What sign?"

"My Patronus, of course."

"So you see, young Neville; those two young rascals shall be easily retrieved from the dreariness of Fangorn and no doubt making a very healthy Hobbit dent in our food supplies before we know what has befallen us," declared Gimli, slapping the teenager heartily on the back.

Feeling much better about the plan, Neville smiled gratefully at his friends. As they all rose to collect their bedrolls for the night, Gimli volunteered to take first watch. Not long after, the remaining group arranged themselves around the little fire to take their rest before setting out for Edoras the next morning.

**XXX**

Half an hour later, Aragorn was fast asleep (snoring) and Legolas lay in the spookily wide-eyed resting state that was, apparently, common to Elvenkind. Neville, however, tossed restlessly on the thin bedroll, unable to shut his eyes and snooze as peacefully as the others. The events of the past few days were buzzing around his head like a swarm of angry bees: the fight at Parth Galen, Boromir's death, the almost four day pursuit across the hills of the Emyn Muil and the flat plains of Rohan. There were also a few answers he still needed from his Guardian and, unable to resist any longer, he sat up and stretched the few feet of distance towards the slumbering witch. He gently prodded her in the shoulder with his index finger, fervently hoping she wouldn't hex him for waking her up.

"Molly?" he whispered.

She wiggled in her sleep but did not stir, so he tried again. "Molly!"

"Not tonight, MuggleMonster," she mumbled sleepily. "Mollywobbles is tired."

Mortified, Neville snatched his hand away as if he'd been burned and scanned the sleeping figures of his friends guiltily, praying they hadn't heard her. Blimey! She'd thought he was Mr Weasley looking for a bit of 'slap and tickle' (as he'd once heard Gran referring it).

How embarrassing!

Perhaps he should just leave her and get his answers in the morning? That would be the sensible thing to do.

But he couldn't. His need for answers was an almost living thing, rushing around his brain like a starving hobbit demanding a mushroom omelette. Reluctantly, he prodded her again. "Mrs Weasley?" he whispered, hoping the more formal mode of address would prevent further embarrassment.

It worked. The red-haired witch tried to brush his finger away at first, but he persisted and finally she rolled over, eyes fluttering open.

"Ne ... ville," she said, lifting her head and yawning so widely, he felt guilty for disturbing her. "Whatever is the matter? Can't you sleep?"

He shook his head and she pulled herself up to sit opposite him. "Would you like a nice cup of tea? I could put some honey in it - that always works for Ron when he dreams about spiders, you know."

Neville grinned. He was used to Ron's spider nightmares. They were legend in his dormitory after their second year of Hogwarts. "No, it's fine. I just needed to ask you something."

"Well, all right then," she said dubiously, obviously wondering what was so important that he'd had to pull her from sleep. "What is it, dear?"

"After you, er, 'questioned' that uruk ..."

"I didn't use it, Neville. The Unforgivable that made your parents so poorly."

He smiled at her. "I know that. You used an Imperio_, _didn't you_?_."

She beamed back at him. "What a clever boy you are! Of course, it's an Unforgivable too, but really, I think it depends on the intentions of the caster as to whether it's a truly bad curse. And besides," she whispered, lowering her voice conspiratorially and leaning towards him, "I dare the Ministry to find me here and punish me for it!"

They snorted with laughter at the thought of Aurors running about Middle Earth, trying to hunt her down.

"Anyway," Neville said after they had both sufficiently recovered from their chuckles, "how did you run into Saruman again?"

She frowned in thought. "Well, it had only been about five minutes or so after Saruman left the uruk that the creature finally died, so I thought that he was probably off to try and find the hobbits. Of course, I couldn't let that happen. Treebeard had spirited them away a few hours earlier, but Saruman_ is_ a wizard and I didn't know what magic he might use to try and locate them, so it seemed like a sensible idea to try to stop him. That's when I pulled Fred's old Cleansweep out of my bag and took to the air. It was the quickest way to locate him."

"You packed a broomstick in your knapsack?" the teenager asked incredulously. He knew she must have, because he'd seen her on it, but he didn't remember her putting it in her bag when he flooed to the Burrow.

"Well, yes. I may have done some reorganising of my supplies after you left that day."

What?

"Eh, what else did you 'reorganise', Molly?"

She blushed. "I packed a litre of Polyjuice potion..."

"Polyjuice potion? What for? And where did you get it?" he squawked in disbelief.

"From the twins' old bedroom. They have the most impressive supply of odds and ends in there and you never know when these things might come in handy. It wasn't difficult to get them - George hasn't set foot in that room since Fred ... well, you know."

Her face fell slightly and, not wanting to distress her further, he nodded and encouraged her to continue.

"So, I packed that, the Cleansweep and a few other things, just to be safe. And a good thing too, because I needed the broom after all! Though, it was rather tricky navigating the forest on it, as you can imagine."

Neville tried not to. He rarely used a broomstick if he could possibly help it, and only then if Gran accompanied him. And even then, neither of them had flown into a forest on one.

"I found the silly man ten minutes later, skulking through the forest and trying to locate Merry and Pippin. Of course, when I finally found him I became rather ... angry ... after the terrible few days he'd put us through and so I started cursing him like there was no tomorrow. Perhaps it wasn't very fair to spring an attack on him but, really dear, I was beyond caring. We fought and I managed to drive him far enough away from the hobbits that he finally ended up where you and the others saw him."

'Rather' angry? Neville smirked. More like blazingly angry, if her performance at the forest edge had been anything to go by.

But there was still something he needed to know.

"Did he say anything to you while you were fighting? Anything that might give you an idea why he wanted to kill _you_ in particular?"

Molly shook her head. "Not really, dear. He was too busy defending himself, for the most part. He did look very surprised to see me, though - even asked my name." Her face screwed up in anger. "The cheek of the man! Plans to put me to death, and doesn't even know my name? Not that I imagine he'll be forgetting it now: he won't be rid of those antlers I gave him until some time in May: that's when red deer normally cast them, you know."

Neville stifled another snort of laughter so he wouldn't wake Aragorn and Legolas. Molly was absolutely priceless!

"Was there anything else, dear?" she asked, yawning again. He knew she needed her sleep after the hectic day she'd had, and he didn't want to keep her from it much longer, but there was one final thing ...

"When Saruman came running out of the forest he heard Aragorn shouting my name and went completely bonkers; said he was going to 'wipe the name of Longbottom from the face of Middle Earth'. Did he mention anything about knowing me when you fought, or when he was talking to the uruk?"

"I'm afraid not," Molly replied, looking as puzzled as he was. "It's all very strange. The man's obviously a few Sickles short of a Galleon, though. First he wants to kill me, then he doesn't know who I am; then he wants to kill you and you don't know who _he_ is. Perhaps it's another Longbottom he's talking about? There must be someone else here who shares your last name. They've obviously managed to rile him up so much that the mere mention of a 'Longbottom' is enough to send him into a vindictive frenzy."

Hmm. Neville wasn't completely convinced by that - not unless his _Gran_ was running about Middle Earth, taking on the enemy single-handedly and leaving chaos in her wake. That thought was so ridiculous, he had to laugh.

"What's so funny, dear?" Molly asked, surprised at his reaction.

"Oh, nothing," he grinned. "Just wondering who it could be. The only other time I've heard the name 'Longbottom' here was when Aragorn told me that the hobbits have a tobacco named after the farmer who grows it."

That seemed to satisfy the witch. She nodded sagely. "Well, there you have it. He's obviously been indulging a bit too much on his pipe and its left him with a nasty case of Lung Mould. I've always said that smoking's bad for the health - and if I catch any of my lot puffing away, they'll rue the day they were born!"

With that, she gave him a pat on the hand before reclining on the thin bedroll. "Now, get some rest, won't you? We've a long day ahead of us tomorrow and you need to be fit for it. Goodnight." She covered herself with her thin blanket and rolled onto her side, leaving him to retire to his own rest.

As he stretched himself on the ground and pillowed his head on the crook of his arm, Neville thought about what she had told him. It was clear to him that Saruman had some sort of vendetta against both himself and Molly, but the reason for it remained a mystery. Who was it, exactly, that Saruman had wanted to execute if it wasn't his Guardian? And could he really be so furious with a tobacco-producing hobbit who lived miles away in the Shire that he'd kill every Longbottom he met?

But the answers eluded him. Before long, his eyes drifted shut and he lost himself to the rest he would need to prepare himself for the arduous task that awaited him in the morning: riding his ruddy horse all the way to Edoras.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

Some Dialogue taken directly from LOTR The Two Towers: Book Three, Chapter Two - The Riders of Rohan.

Fæleu - faithful/trusty/good/dear/beloved (in Old English)

Lung mould - the wizarding version of emphysema. (IMO)

_Author's note:_ I don't actually know the first thing about horses, riding, trees, etc and any mention of their behaviour, etc, has been extrapolated from the various websites I used to research the chapter. Please bear this in mind when reading.

Nev's Patronus - Okay, it probably should've been a large, hopping Trevor, but I deliberately chose an animal I felt best reflected his own qualities - the Labrador is intelligent (think Guide dogs), brave (**Salty and Roselle -** Labrador Guide Dogs** -** were awarded PDSA Dickin Medals for bravery after safely leading their human friends down the World Trade Center stairwell and out to safety after the 9/11 attacks), loyal and loveable.

Thanks,

Kara's Aunty ;)


	15. A Meeting of Minds

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. and Lord of the Rings and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

**Credit: **www dot hp-encyclopedia dot com and www dot Tuckborough dot net

**Please review - it really _is_ my only reward.**

**Not Quite A Maia**

**Chapter 15**

* * *

_Third Age: 2__nd__ March 3019_

_Tower of Orthanc, Isengard_

It was an incensed (but colourful) Saruman who hobbled angrily through the large hall of his forbidding tower after escaping from Fangorn. He paused half-way through the vast chamber to scratch furiously at his burning bits.

It had taken almost a day longer to return home due to his frequent sojourns to the few streams that were to be found in the midst of the gloomy forest.

After fleeing as far from the wrath of the flying witch as he was physically able, he had finally felt secure enough to stumble to a halt and deal with his most pressing need: the banishment of the curse to his most intimate areas. Much to his horror, however, nothing he tried could bring relief to the burning, furious rash that clung as possessively to his bits as a Rohirrim to a horse. No spells or arts, incantations or commands broke the stronghold of what was surely the worst curse he had ever been the subject of (apart from his ever-present and much-loathed breasts). In the end, he had been left with no choice but to make his way back to Isengard by way of the scant streams that fed the Entwash, so that he could immerse (or throw) himself in the soothing waters whenever the itch became too unbearable (which was more or less all the time).

So consumed had he been with alleviating the demands of his rash-consumed bits, that he forgot to duck when dashing through the trees and his magnificent antlers quickly became entangled in a low-hanging branch. After five minutes of manic struggle (and almost puce with the desperate need to cool his nethers), the unhappy wizard had been left with no choice but to blast the bough from the tree. In his haste to get the deed done, however, his less than accurate aim resulted in him blasting at his own head. Fortunately, he sustained no damage to his (natural) anatomical features and his hasty action _had_ freed him from the worst of his antlers, but it did leave him with two rather ragged stumps that he had been unable to remove since.

Of course, the next challenge had been passing through the grounds of his own fortress unchallenged. Ever since his disastrous encounter with the hated Augusta Longbottom (curse her!), he had taken to cloaking himself completely from head to toe, so that none of his minions discovered the humiliation their master had suffered at her hands. Those that had found him lying on the floor of his hall after their confrontation had been dealt with (the wargs were very grateful) and now only Borgalak and Grodek remained as witnesses to his shame. Thankfully, were easily controlled, weak-minded minions that they were, but if some of his higher lieutenants or captains knew of his fate at the hands of a mere woman ...

This new degradation, therefore, made it necessary to skulk into his own tower - _his own tower! _- like a thief in the night; silent and watchful, fearful and ... incredibly itchy.

And now, safe in the bastion of his home a day later, he had been reduced to conjuring an enchanted vapour which enveloped his form from the waist down and took the worst of the sting from his bits (although any observant spectator might still be privy to the sight of him making the occasional grab and scratch).

Witches! Curse them! Curse them all! When he got his hands on the pair of them, he would see to it that they were torn limb from limb. He would pluck their eyes from their heads with his very fingers; make them dance on a bed of spikes; tear their hearts from their womanly chests and roast them on a spit!

He _hated_ them!

The sound of his army marching across the grounds below pulled him from his malicious contemplations. Turning on his heel, he pulled his hood over his (jagged) head and stomped awkwardly towards the balcony doors to view the one bright spot of his currently miserable existence. Opening them, Sarumanpassed onto the balcony proper, keeping his face and body safely concealed beneath the finely woven depths of his cloak. The sight of ten thousand orcs and uruk-hai leaving the grounds of Isengard to crush the straw-haired Rohirrim lifted his black heart for a moment and a slight curve graced the corner of his lips.

Good! If Grima spoke truly, Théoden would move his forces to Helm's Deep, and in a matter of days Saruman's army would destroy them! His orcs would then sweep the land crushing any who resisted and enslaving the remaining population. With such control over the region and so many servants at his bidding, finding the hobbits - and thus the One Ring - could only be a matter of time, for they could not have gotten far. And when he did, he would be more powerful than even Sauron himself!

As long as he found and destroyed these new intruders ...

Another vicious twinge forced all thoughts of glory from his mind. Fleeing the balcony, Saruman yanked up his robe to give his abused bits a thorough scratching. Cursed vapour! Why was it not working as well as it should? He rubbed frantically between his legs in an effort to find relief, but, unfortunately for the miserable Maia, Borgalak chose exactly that moment to waltz into the chamber with news from abroad, and the ugly uruk almost collapsed in shock when he spotted his noble master apparently 'servicing' himself by the balcony doors.

Mortified and furious by the unannounced visit, Saruman quickly removed his hand from his groin and dropped his robe.

"What is the meaning of this intrusion!" he hissed angrily at the (practically blushing) creature.

"Sorry, yore Lordship," replied Borgalak, desperate to turn round and get as far away from the pervy wizard as possible (he had had no idea his master was prone to such displays of self-affection and, quite frankly, would rather take his chances with a roomful of starving wargs than witness such a sight again). "I didn't know yer was ... er … busy, master."

Borgalak found it almost impossible to take his eyes off the previously occupied (green) hand of the cloaked wizard, something which his master was clearly unhappy with, for he shoved it behind his back as soon as he realised what Borgalak was looking at. The uruk was thus forced to raise his head and make eye contact instead.

"I was not 'busy'!" Saruman spat scornfully. "I was merely -"

The wizard paused, lost about how to elaborate.

Merely what? Scratching himself thoughtfully while he contemplated his next move against the Men of the West? Pining after some female companionship?

"Yes, me Lord?" enquired Borgalak with a fearful, wide-eyed gaze of almost morbid fascination at the wizard's rumpled cloak and the fine mist which enshrouded his lower half.

Bah! He would not explain himself to a mere servant! "Busy!" he yelled, daring the uruk to point out that _that_ had been his first suggestion. But Borgalak wisely refrained from making that (no doubt fatal) mistake and Saruman, determined to reinforce his position of authority, stormed towards the dais and (gently) lowered himself on his throne.

"Well, have you brought news of worth for your master or did you come here simply to spy upon him, you worthless creature?" he sneered.

His snide accusation snapped Borgalak out of his trance and the uruk moved to stand to attention before him.

"I is loyal only ter you, me Lord," Borgalak protested, affronted at the slight to his good name.

"Indeed?," scoffed Saruman tightly, trying desperately not to wriggle in his seat. When he got his hands on that flame-haired, broom-flying, disease of a woman ... "Then state your business and be gone!"

The uruk shuffled nervously on the spot. "Yes, me Lord. One of 'em Nazgûl from Mordor flew in ter see yer last evening, but yer was still in the forest. 'E 'ad a message from the Dark Lord - says yore to speak wiv 'im as soon as yer gets back. Black Rider weren't too 'appy neither, if yer asks me, sir, but 'e wouldn't state his business more'n 'at an' 'e flew off straight after."

A Nazgûl? Saruman frowned. It was not unusual for Sauron to use them as glorified messengers between the two Towers when his attention was diverted elsewhere and he had not the time to spare to communicate via the Palantír. Though the Black Riders were more concerned of late with finding the One Ring, one would still occasionally call to bring news of troop deployment or other snippets of strategic import from the south which were required for the coordination of both armies against the Men of the West.

Indeed, the last Nazgûl to call at Orthanc had been successfully persuaded by him to join the hunt for the Fellowship, although Saruman had been careful to make no mention of the One Ring; he'd simply stated that a small band of spies - possibly under the protection of dangerous witch - was seeking to infiltrate the Black Lands to gather intelligence which could be used against Sauron's forces. The Nazgûl was under instruction to secure the hobbits and the Longbottom hag (curse her!) and return them to Isengard with all possible haste. But that had been several days ago and Saruman had heard nothing from Sauron's servant since.

Perhaps this Nazgûl from yester-eve was the very one he had despatched almost a week ago? But where, then, was Longbottom? Was she dead? Had she escaped capture?

A voice interrupted his musings.

"Yore Lordship? Is you well?"

Saruman blinked and glared briefly at the uruk from beneath the rim of his hood before dismissing him. "Get out, fool. I will call you again if I have need of you."

With that, Borgalak executed a clumsy bow and turned towards the door, anxious to leave his temperamental master. Before the uruk could get very far, his master's dangerously silky voice gave him pause.

"And Borgalak? Never enter my hall again without forewarning. And do not forget that all you see and hear in this hall is not for the eyes or ears of those outside it," Saruman drawled, glaring at the unhappy creature's back. "Any mention of what you have seen or heard today to anyone other than myself, and your existence may become ... untenable. Do you understand?"

Borgalak gulped audibly at the threat. Oh yes, he understood: keep all news of the war to himself unless otherwise instructed (which, as any good soldier knew, went without saying) and don't tell _anyone_ that master had been caught 'tickling the garden snake' (or he'd be seeing that roomful of starving wargs sooner than he thought).

"Yes, me Lord. I understands perfectly, yore Lordship, sir."

Saruman leaned back in his chair, watching in satisfaction as the hulking creature raced through the doorsy, slamming them firmly shut behind him and leaving the pea-green Istar alone with his thoughts (and a good opportunity for another scratch).

So, the Dark Lord wished an audience with his ally, did he? Did he have news from the Black Lands? Had he gathered his forces sufficiently to make a strike against Gondor?

No. Impossible: the Dark Lord's messenger had informed him last week that the Easterlings were yet on their long march to Mordor. They could not have arrived so soon. Therefore, Sauron did not yet have sufficient forces to rally against the White City - not if he intended his strike to be a definitive one.

Perhaps the Nazgûl he had despatched to intercept the Fellowship had indeed found them ... and the One Ring with them? Such a thing was not impossible; in fact, it was more than likely. Were the Black Riders not drawn to it, after all? And if it had discovered its master's prize, it would have claimed both it _and_ the one who carried it and borne them both back to Mordor. It would not take long for the Dark Lord to deduce what the master of Orthanc had been attempting to achieve once the Nazgûl informed him that the White Wizard had ordered the capture of the hobbits and their subsequent return to Isengard …

This was a most unpleasant thought. Unpleasant enough to make Saruman temporarily forget his angry itch. He rose from his seat and descended the dais. Gingerly he approached the carved table by his throne, poured himself a healthy glass of red wine from the decanter and gulped it down in one long swallow. The potent liquid coursed its way down his throat and settled in his stomach, soothing his rattled nerves and clearing his mind of doubt.

Nay, Sauron could not know of his plans. As far as the Dark Lord was concerned, they were allies. If he learned that Saruman desired the return of the hobbits to Orthanc, he would, in his arrogance, assume that his old friend merely wished to be the one to return his prize to him personally.

Fool!

With his fears of unmasking assuaged, Saruman poured himself another measure of wine and began to hobble across the long hall nursing the elegant crystal glass in his hands.

Whatever the reason for the Dark Lord's urgent summons, it would have to wait a few minutes more. He had other matters on his mind at present than the concerns of Sauron; matters which revolved around the exploding population of witches on the borders of his land.

A hot flush crept up his neck as his thoughts dwelled on the unpleasant encounters with both the Longbottom hag (curse her!) and the flame-haired fiend who had altered his gait from a regal stride to a tortured waddle.

Where had they come from? Who had sent them? The Valar? Nay, they came not from the distant shores of Valinor - their magic was too unfamiliar to be of an accord with the Maiar who once dwelt there.

So, not Maiar…then what? Clearly they possessed a power of sorts, but it had been several millennia since last there had been _one_ female in Arda - let alone two - who could wield such arts, and she had passed after the dwarves slew her elven mate. Of course, Melian's magic would have been of the variety more familiar to him than the peculiar (but effective) brand used by the foreign witches.

For peculiar their magic was - he was living proof of that (from the tips of his green toes to the top of his spiked, yellow head).

Was their magic so strange from his because they were female? Hmm, possible.

Yet, no. It could not be. For the boy the flying witch was so keen to protect had also wielded similar arts against him; had also possessed one of those abnormally short staffs.

The boy ...

Saruman paused in thought for a moment, taking a sip of his wine as he scratched absently at his groin. There was something about that boy, something he had forgotten in both the heat of battle and his subsequent affront at the hands of the child's protector.

_Crack!_

The glass of wine shattered in his hand as he recalled the voice of the ranger crying out to the young wizard.

Neville _Longbottom_!

The boy was a _Longbottom_!

It was enough to make the blood boil in his veins. Discarding the remains of his glass contemptuously on the marble floor, he stormed over to the balcony doors and threw them open, allowing the wind to flow through the hall and cool his baking temper.

So, the ancient witch had seen fit to mate and produce offspring? And, as the boy was too young to have been the fruit of her own loins, he must be the child of _her _child. Her grandson, then.

But an Istar bearing children? Not since Melian wed Elu Thingol had such a thing happened, if one did not take into account the unnatural offspring of Ungoliant. Surely he, as the head of his Order, would have received news of this?

He snorted inelegantly. It would seem that there were a great many things of late that he had no knowledge of: the resurgence of witches alone was a great enough shock, let alone that they were peopling the lands with their spawn.

Nay, childbearing abilities aside, these infiltrators to his lands came not from Valinor, they hailed from elsewhere - somewhere unknown to him. And it was clear that they were in league with the Peoples of the West, for both the boy and his protector fought side by side with the ranger, dwarf and elf and had somehow managed to thwart his capture of the hobbits ...

The Istar's ancient, pea-green brow creased in a frown.

Did the half-elven Lord of Imladris have aught to do with this? Possible, for the blood of Melian flowed strong in his veins and it would not be an impossibility for him to use the arts he had inherited combined with his many long years of knowledge to locate these new (if strange) allies, and persuade them to join his cause.

And what of Galadriel? She was, after all, the most powerful elf in all Middle-Earth. She had travelled far and wide throughout the lands of Arda. Her wisdom and cunning were known to many and she had used her arts to secure herself the leadership of a realm in these mortal lands - something she had always desired. The elleth was powerful and arrogant and it was no secret that he had never fully gained her trust, something that became apparent when she made it known that she desired Gandalf to be head of the White Council and not him.

Yes, it was more than likely that the proud elleth had stumbled upon this group of foreign Istari during her travels; befriended them with her flowery, seductive arts, kept knowledge of their existence to herself, then called upon their aid when the situation merited it. How very like her to withhold information from those around her! How she must have laughed at them all!

Still, there was one she may have entrusted her knowledge to: her pet wizard. Gandalf would not have been able to resist travelling to meet these new allies and befriending them in that sickening, jolly manner that was unique to him. So it may very well be that it had _not_ been the Lady of Lothlórien who had called on their aid at all! Once the Council of Elrond had made their decision to send the Ring to its destruction in Mordor - by which time the People of the West would have known of the White Wizard's treachery - it would have been but a little matter for Gandalf to send instructions to the hidden Istari to provide them with representatives to watch over Isengard while he watched over his foolish band of Mordor-bound adventurers.

Curse that fool a thousand times! Even in death he had the power to cause disruption!

A sudden, vicious twitch in his nethers made him grab at his groin and scratch it furiously. Would this Arda-forsaken plague to his manliness never desist? When he got his hands on that flying wench ...

And get his hands on her he would, he decided. He would not allow two women and a mere boy to ruin his carefully-laid plans; plans that were centuries in the making. For he was Saruman the White (a title he had reclaimed after Augusta fled Orthanc: the thought of referring to himself as 'Saruman of Many Colours' now was not as appealing as it had once been, even if it was more appropriate than ever), the most powerful wizard of his Order - and therefore the most powerful wizard in Middle Earth! He would make them _all_ pay for their affronts to him!

But how to snare them? He would have to be careful, for it was clear they were both powerful and cunning. His own tower had not been able to contain the hated Longbottom hag (curse her!) and she had sailed off into the night on the back of the Lord of Eagles himself. As for the Red Witch, she did not require the services of a bird to soar through the skies.

Well, these were matters he would have to give further thought to at a later time. For the present, he had an appointment with the Dark Lord and it would not be wise to keep Sauron waiting any longer than he already had.

With that, Saruman pulled his hood even further down his brow, yelping in pain when it snagged on one of his broken horns and forcing him to reach up to untangle it before pulling the hood up and over the grotesque protuberances.

Oh yes, he thought as he speed-waddled his way to the room at the opposite side of the chamber where he stored the Palantír: he would make them _all_ pay!

**XXX**

The Palantír of Orthanc stood on a tall black plinth in an otherwise empty chamber located off the west wall of the main hall and only the Lord of Isengard held a key to its door.

After locking said door securely behind him, Saruman hobbled across the room until he stood before the cloth-covered seeing stone. He raised a hand and was about to uncover it when he paused, registering (yet again) the unsightly hue of his skin.

Bah! He could not appear before his ally looking like this. What had he been thinking? The Dark Lord would expect the reassuring form of the White Wizard, not this full-bosomed, rainbow-coloured, horn-headed, twitching travesty of a weakling! It was time to attempt another form change.

That thought made him grind his teeth in annoyance. After his own powers had failed to break the evil magicks which had resulted in his unfortunate transformation at the hands of Longbottom (curse her!), he had attempted to change his form back to its original using all the power at his command. He had met with some initial success, but it had not lasted for more than a minute and the heady joy which had enveloped him at seeing his own white skin reappear turned to rage when the horrific green hue began to slowly bleed across his arms and face once more. And Orthanc had never been privy to a scream of such outrage as his when he felt the gentle, insistent swelling of his magnificent breasts as they playfully protruded once more from beneath the straining folds of his robe.

Now, standing before the Palantír, he surveyed them in disgust as he contemplated another attempt to be rid of them (if only for a short while).

Could he be successful this time? After all, his last attempt had not been a complete failure and it may be possible to keep his discussion with Sauron short enough to fool him - but would Sauron be satisfied with a mere minute of conversation? Bah! This was ridiculous! Was he not Saruman of Many Colo ... NO! Saruman the _White_! He was Saruman the _WHITE_! He had been appointed by the Valar themselves to be the leader of his Order! Was it not he who had fooled the wisest of the White Council - nodding in agreement at their foolish suggestions for years on end while secretly plotting their collective downfall? Had he not created a more powerful breed of orc than the Dark Lord himself? Uruk-hai that could safely withstand the light of day to carry out any destruction he ordered? Was his army not this very minute marching towards Rohan to annihilate the pest of men which resided there?

And would _he_ not be the one to wrest the One Ring from the grasp of field-loving Shire-rat - from under the very nose of its Creator - and use it to become more powerful than any Maia who had ever lived?

Powerful enough, even, to challenge the Valar themselves!

These heady thoughts filled him with a renewed sense of purpose and Saruman untied his cloak and threw it off contemptuously (being careful to avoid the irritating snag on his remnant horns). He lifted his staff high into the air and began to chant words of ancient magic with more purpose (and less desperation) than he had the first time.

For several long minutes he stood before the plinth, staff aloft and voice reverberating powerfully around the small chamber and soon the air began to shimmer. The green hand which held his staff began to fade to a more healthy pink tint; the disgusting yellow hair and orange beard transformed themselves into the more familiar white shot through with black strands, and finally, _blessedly_, the hated protuberances that had no right to adorn the noble chest of a male Maia began to shrink until eventually, they too were gone.

Success! Blissful, merciful liberation! Lowering his staff and resting it against the plinth, Saruman ran his hands across his face and arms, grabbing a fistful of hair and admiring the speckled strands. Truly, a weight had been lifted off his chest.

Well, two actually, he noted with glee as he ran his hands across the flat, manly plains that had, for the past few days, made the sighting of his own feet almost impossible (unless he sat down and raised them on a stool).

His joy was short-lived as another vicious twinge in his groin forced his hand to dive into enemy territory and claw at his bits.

Curse it all! Would it have been too much to ask to have a moments relief from the fire? What on earth had that plague of a woman done to him? It felt like he had a thousand hungry hobbits foraging through the forest of his manhood and sinking their teeth into his juicy, juicy mushrooms. Of course, there were no hobbits (or other life forms) there (he had already checked). But, by all the power of the Valar! If this unbearable itching did not desist soon, his bits would be in tatters before the Golden Hall fell!

Annoyed that he was having to waste precious time tending to his abused manhood - and wondering why he had not thought of it sooner - he decided to forgo the cooling mist enveloping his lower half and direct it instead straight to the source of his discomfort. Grabbing his staff, the ancient wizard pointed it directly at his offending anatomy and uttered the relevant incantation ...

"Aaagh!"

The ivory staff clattered to the floor as Saruman bowed over and grabbed on to the plinth for support.

Aulë's enormous anvil! So _that _was why he had not thought to utilise the mist so directly before now! Gasping in shock, he clasped the plinth as if it were a lifeline, taking short, shallow breaths as his body registered the sudden transformation between his legs from the fire of Mordor's pits to the icy coldness of the Helcaraxe.

Slowly, slowly, he straightened himself, clutching at the ground for his staff and using it to bear his weight upon. A cold sweat had broken out on his forehead as the spell hit its mark and he raised a hand to swipe at it. Pulling up his robe, he leaned over slightly and gingerly checked his groin to make sure he had not inadvertently given himself frost burn in that most delicate of areas. The little mist which clung there made it difficult to tell, so he ran a hand over it - ah, it appeared the cold had forced his 'mushrooms' into hiding. Still, everything else seemed intact, so he was happy with that. At least the dreadful itch had subsided for the time being.

The robe was loosened from his grip to fall around his ankles again and he sighed in relief. His form was fair once more; the fire had been banished from his groin; and his army marched on towards victory against the horse-lords. If all went well, before too long he would be in possession of the One Ring, the boy, Longbottom (curse her!), the Red Witch (curse her too!) - and not even Sauron himself would be able to stop him from becoming the ultimate power in Middle Earth!

Life was good.

With this in mind, the (temporarily) White Wizard schooled his features into a neutral mask and buried his thoughts of utter domination deep in the dark recesses of his devious mind. It would not bode well to have them lying too close to the surface when in conference with Sauron…

And so, confident that he had his power in hand and an even firmer grip on reality, he pulled the soft grey cloth from the Palantír to consult with his 'ally' ...

The Palantír reacted as soon as Saruman's hand came into contact with it. From within its black depths, a great swirling commenced, growing ever outwards, until it seemed a small hurricane was held captive within the glass sphere. At the centre of the cloudy mass there emanated an orange glow, small and weak initially, yet growing larger and stronger with each passing second until it enveloped the phenomena which created it. Soon, the Palantír was black no more: it burned with the fire of the Eye.

Sauron had arrived.

And he was not happy.

"Saruman the White," hissed the terrible voice of the Dark Lord. "I sent word for you to contact me immediately, yet you dare to invoke my ire with delay?"

Saruman did not betray his thoughts with so much as a twitch. "Forgive me, old friend, but I had pressing matters to attend to in the borders of my land - an incursion of the Enemy that delayed my return until recently. I have only this second heard word of your summons."

Which was not the whole truth of course, but he would feed himself to his own wargs ere he admitted to the most powerful Dark Lord in Ages that he had been too busy fending off hostile witches and tending to his flaming groin and springy chest to answer any sooner.

Fortunately, the reply seemed to mollify the Eye. "'Tis a pity to hear that the Enemy has grown so bold as to attack the seat of a power so great," Sauron hissed, before his tone changed.

"Or perhaps the power of Orthanc is not what it once was and any fool of a Man with a decent sword and a handful of trusted followers may breach its defences."

The White Wizard clenched his jaw in anger. How he hated these discussions! Ever did the Eye of Sauron seek his support in this war they fought together, yet it never missed an opportunity to slander the power of Isengard with subtle insults and jibes. And always did he have to bite his tongue and ignore them, lest the Eye guess his true thoughts.

"The power of Orthanc is ever hale, my friend," he said innocently, wanting nothing more than to plunge his fist through the black sphere and punch the offending Eye in the ... eye. "The incursion has been dealt with successfully -"

A blatant lie.

"- and my army marches even now towards the lands of the horse-lords. Soon, their race will fall and the Men of Gondor will be unable to look to the West for support when you strike at their City."

The Eye burned in orangey-red relief within the Palantír, receding and swelling in turn.

"That, at least, is good news, Curumo. Yet it is not the reason I called this meeting. I sent to you one of my Nazgûl a week since and he has not returned. Have you knowledge of his whereabouts?"

"I heard that he arrived yester eve to the Tower of Orthanc, but did not long tarry after giving my servants your message."

The Eye swelled to such an extent that it filled the sphere completely and he could see the black slit at its centre.

"I speak not of _him_, but of the one I despatched earlier with news of the Easterlings' march!" said the angry voice of the Dark Lord. "Do not play me for a fool, White Wizard!"

This time, Saruman did blink. The Eye spoke of the Nazgûl _he_ had sent after the Fellowship - after the witch! Mustering his thoughts, he tried to concoct a believable response.

"Forgive me, old friend. Indeed, one of your Black Riders came to call at that time, but I had just had word from my agents that a small group of Elves from Lothlórien were making their way to your borders in secret with the hope of infiltrating them and bringing back intelligence of your forces to the People of the West. Such news would be invaluable to both the Gondorians and the Rohirrim."

A derisive laugh. "Elves? From Lothlórien? The Lord and Lady of those cursed lands care not for the troubles of mortals! Why would they, in their arrogance, deign to assist the race of Men when it is easier for their dwindling numbers to flee to the Grey Havens and take the boat to Valinor like the cowards they are?"

"A good question, my friend, but one that is easily answered. The Elves love their mortal realms deeply and it is would be with heavy hearts that they would relinquish them. If they can find a way to tip the balance of Fate to favour Men, they will search for it, for the fall of Men will lead to their own doom. And many Elves may not reach the Havens in time to sail across the Sea ere we conquer Middle Earth and hunt them down. It is in their own best interest to offer aid where they think it needed."

"Ere _we_ conquer Middle Earth?" mocked the Eye, causing Saruman to grit his teeth again. "Of course, as plausible as your argument is, it still does not explain the absence of my Nazgûl."

The White Wizard took a long, deep breath before answering. "I bade your messenger to intercept the company of Elves and destroy them before they could reach Mordor. As he was returning to those very lands himself, it seemed prudent to make use of him thus."

There was a long, deathly pause.

"You _bade_ him? Made _use_ of him? How dare you attempt to control that which is beyond your power! The Nazgûl are servants of Barad-dúr, not Orthanc!"

Oh dear. This was not developing in quite the manner he planned. But why was the Dark Lord so angry? Surely he could see the sense in a servant being instructed to destroy spies intent on encroaching into his master's lands - regardless of who issued those instructions?

"My Lord Sauron ..." he began, attempting once more to mollify the livid Eye, but could get no further than those three words.

"I shall tell you why your ill command to my servant has delayed his return, Fool of Orthanc! _HE IS DESTROYED_!"

Saruman blanched in utter shock. But that was impossible! Nothing could kill the Nine Riders other than the downfall of their master - and _he_ was very much alive and glowing at him in fury from the confines of the Palantír.

The White Wizard was suddenly very grateful for the hundreds of leagues distance between the Two Towers, then immediately chastised himself for his weakness. There was no cause for alarm. A mere eye could not rip him limb from limb.

Yet.

"Not five days ago did Barad-dúr tremble with the shock of his death," hissed the Eye, still furious. "And I lay the fault for that at your feet! And tell me not one more time that it was a group of Elves he intercepted before his death - for not even the strongest of them has the power to vanquish a Nazgûl. Something is ill in the lands of Arda. I have sensed this for many days now. Something new and unexpected threatens my plans. What goes forth in the West, White Wizard? You must have knowledge of it! I command you to answer me!"

_His_ plans? _Command_? How dare this flaming ball of fire presume to _command_ him! Anger licked through his veins as he fought to control both his temper and mastery of his form, which was being sorely tested by the powerful emotions he was experiencing. It would not be wise to allow words spoken in the heat of the moment to betray his ultimate plans - or his unfortunate condition. He must tread carefully, show no weakness, or the forces of Mordor would soon be marching towards the borders of Isengard to usurp him. He must give the Dark Lord some of the news he wished for. Well, so be it. It was foolish to have expected Sauron not to notice the same vibrations in the air which shook him to his core more than two weeks ago; the very ones which appeared to herald the arrival of the hated Augusta Longbottom.

Swallowing his anger, he made use of the same vocal gift that had captivated the Longbottom hag so many days before, injecting into it this time a note of gravity (it would not do to have the Dark Lord think he was attempting to seduce him).

"It grieves me to hear of this loss, Lord Sauron. It grieves me greatly. But I must respectfully protest at where you lay the blame for this, for the feet of Saruman the White are not at fault here. Nay, ever do they tread with care by the side of a friend. Yet the Nazgûl is still fallen, regardless of how cautious my step is, and I will admit, perhaps, to being misguided in despatching him anywhere without your express authority. You must understand though, that it is in both our interests to prevent any spies nearing your borders and it was that thought alone which caused me to act as I did."

Saruman paused for breath, but the Eye did not respond, something he took as a positive sign.

"Indeed you have the right of it when you say that something is ill in the lands of Arda, for I have seen those ills, my friend."

Another pause, this time for effect.

"Well," hissed the Dark Lord. "Do not keep me in suspense with your flair for drama, Saruman. I am in no mood for such sport!"

"We have, it seems, a new Enemy."

Now the Eye paused, seeming to hold still in the Palantír, neither swelling or ebbing.

"A _new_ Enemy? What do you mean by this?"

A glow of satisfaction warmed all regions of the smug wizard's body (except his deeply-chilled nethers). The Dark Lord had obviously been taken by surprise. So, Saruman the White was in possession of intelligence that had not yet reached the Black Lands? Intelligence that - if he played his hand carefully - may be a greater aid to _him_ than it would to Sauron? Splendid tidings ...

Feeling much more confident about his role in the conversation, Saruman adopted a slightly concerned expression.

"It would be more accurate, my friend, to say '_several_ new Enemies'. Two weeks ago, a group of my soldiers came under attack from a Witch of considerable power not four leagues from Orthanc. Only one survived the slaughter of his companions to bring word of her existence back to Isengard."

The Eye grew within the Palantír once more. "A Witch? What devilry is this? There have been no female Maia in the lands of Arda since the First Age!"

"Ah, but she is no Maia. Nay, I do not believe she has ever set foot upon the Elven Realm of Valinor."

"Impossible! How can such a woman possess the power of a Maia, yet not hail from across the Sundering Sea? And why is it, _friend_," sneered the Eye, "that if you knew of her presence two weeks ago, you did not see fit to inform me of her existence until necessity deemed it inevitable?"

"I thought not that her power was of sufficient challenge to either the might of Isengard or Mordor," countered Saruman, keeping a tight hold on his temper once more. The effort of controlling his form was becoming more of a strain with each biting slur from his 'ally'.

"And yet," snapped Sauron, scorn audible in his tone, "you have been able to form your _own_ expert opinion on the extent of her 'insufficient' power. How did this come to pass?"

"She was captured attempting to infiltrate Isengard and brought before me," the White Wizard revealed (not bothering to mention she had actually managed to get _inside_ the Tower of Orthanc itself - there was no need to give the one-eyed monster _that_ amount of detail).

"And what did you learn from this ... Witch?"

"I commanded her to reveal her name and her purpose here."

Or rather, charmed her into visibility and seduced her into lowering her guard while he whipped her staff from her grasp and threw her from pillar to post like an incompetent orc.

"Her name is Augusta Longbottom. At first I thought her to be sent straight from the Valar to aid the Men of the West in their fight, but her staff is like none I have ever seen and the magic it wields is preceded by bursts of riotous colour."

Typical female, really. Even with a staff of power in their unworthy hands, they could not resist the urge to decorate.

Which made him think of his green skin. And yellow hair. _And_ orange beard. He stifled a growl.

Shaking off the distraction of his current, multi-coloured, woes, he returned to the matter at hand.

"Furthermore, she did not appear to know of the Valar or the Undying Lands. I thought this trickery on her part, but perhaps it is not."

"How can you be so certain of this?"

"Because I had her detained in the dungeons of Isengard for many days, where I tortured her mercilessly," said Saruman, lying through his teeth without so much as batting an eyelash. "Indeed, her screams of agony so disturbed my wargs, that I had to imprison her on the pinnacle of the Tower itself. But not once, in all the many agonies she endured, did she admit to knowledge of the Valar."

"I see," replied the Eye of Sauron thoughtfully. "Well do I know the effectiveness of torture which can be inflicted by a Maia, my friend. It would be impossible for anyone to withstand such agonies, least of all a woman."

Saruman chose not to reply to that. The only agonies that had been endured had been the ones created by the cursed woman herself. His eardrums had almost shattered when her voice boomed across half of Isengard demanding 'improved accommodations'. Not to mention that trick she played on him with her staff when he had foolishly placed the wretched thing in his mouth and almost blasted a hole through the back of his neck. And, of course, who could forget the classic shower of 'golden rain' that she flung from the pinnacle of Orthanc, drenching him with her own waste as he was rallying the Dunlendings to join his fight against their hated Rohirrim neighbours?

Agonies indeed!

"But if she does not come from the Undying Lands, from whence does she hail?" demanded the Eye impatiently, pulling him from his dark thoughts.

"I know not, Lord Sauron. And I had not the time to question her further, for she was rescued from the pinnacle by one the Great Eagles and flown to regions unknown. Although, it may be safe to hazard a guess that she was carried to one of the Elven havens. Perhaps even Lothlórien itself. If she was not an ally of the West upon her arrival in Isengard, she was when she left it."

"And what of these other Enemies? Are you saying there are more of her kind here aiding the People of the West?"

"That is exactly what I am saying. For the incursion to my borders which delayed my appearance here today was caused by another of these Witches - one who flew through the air on no more than a broomstick and used magic of strange and terrible awe."

_Terrible_ awe. His rash-consumed bits would testify to that.

"And there was also the Wizard-boy she protected."

"A Wizard-boy? Come now, Saruman, you sport with me once more - I tire of it! There are no Wizards of such youth in all the lands of Arda."

"I have seen him with my own eyes, my friend. A child of Istari, of no more than eighteen Winters who wields a staff of power similar to his female counterparts. And despite his youth, he wields it effectively; extinguishing fire with water from its tip, shielding against spells set upon him. As did his flying companion. Their arts may be strange, but they are powerful, and the Men of the West now call these strangers friend."

The Eye shimmered. "Which means that they are _my_ Enemies, whether sent by the Valar or not. You say they wield strange magic of great power? You have seen this with your own eyes?"

He nodded. "I have. They are not completely immune to the effects of my magic, but it can be difficult to use it against them when they are able to shield themselves so effectively."

There was a long silence as the Dark Lord digested this information. Too long. While Saruman was happy enough to let _him_ worry about these interlopers for a while, the duration of it was beginning to concern him; he was struggling to contain his form now and if Sauron did not reach the obvious conclusion soon, he would be revealed in all his colourful glory ...

"Do you believe their magic to be great enough to destroy a Nazgûl?"

Finally! The wizard resisted the urge to roll his eyes and instead answered the inquiry.

"I believe it is a possibility which cannot be ignored, my friend."

'My friend' indeed!

"This is a complication I had not foreseen, Saruman."

The Istar was surprised he could see anything at _all_ with that swollen eye.

"I had believed that the fall of Gandalf the Grey would be too severe a blow for the Enemy to recover from. Yet now, they appear to have the aid of at least three more powerful allies! We cannot allow these foreign Istari to thwart our plans! Not when we are so close to victory!"

Oh, so it was 'we' again was it? Saruman fought harder to control his temper at the obvious duplicity of his ally.

"I agree. We need to contain the threat they present ..."

He broke off as his body began to spasm. Nay, not yet - they were almost finished! Struggling to contain the magic which presented the Dark Lord with the illusion of normalcy, he tried to continue as if nothing had happened.

Sauron did not appear to notice his momentary lapse. The Eye was too busy swelling and ebbing within the cold sphere as if contemplating options.

"We must capture them, this much is certain. We must ascertain if their numbers are greater than we have knowledge of at present. In order to capture them successfully, we must learn of their whereabouts and look for any weakness ... Saruman? Saruman, why do you pay me no heed!"

But Saruman could not reply: he was slick with sweat. It was pouring down his brow as he trembled against the betrayal of his magic.

The spell was wearing off! Here, now - in front of the Dark Lord himself!

"Answer me!" bellowed the Eye, furious at being ignored.

Desperate to save himself the utter humiliation of transforming back to the shadow that was his new self, he wrenched at the hand which lay on the Palantír in order to cut the communication with the Eye (hoping to pass the whole thing off later as nothing more than an incredible urge to visit his chamber-pot), but to his horror his hand would not move.

Sauron would not release him!

"What are you fighting so hard to conceal, my friend?" hissed the Dark Lord suspiciously, his burning Eye pulsated in anger.

At any other time, Saruman would have had the power to cut the connection himself, but he had already spent a good deal of his power in maintaining his façade of normality, and it had tired him considerably. Now, with one hand glued to the sphere and the burning Eye of Sauron as witness, his body gave one, final shudder and the illusion he had fought so long to hold shattered as he sagged against the plinth.

The Eye of Sauron stilled and a shocked silence filled the room.

"Raise your head, White Wizard."

Powerless, furious, Saruman thought briefly about ignoring his 'guest'.

"RAISE YOUR HEAD, WHITE WIZARD!" bellowed the Eye once more.

The volume of the command alone made the Istar snap to attention, wincing as his eardrums quivered in protest. He stood before the flaming Eye, yellow locks hanging limply down his robe - a robe that was once again strained tightly across luscious curves that many a maiden would kill for.

"I beg your pardon, my old friend," hissed the Eye cautiously. "I was not aware that you had changed your title."

Confused at both the remark and the tone, he frowned.

The Dark Lord was in a mood to be accommodating. "Why, you are now Saruman the Green, are you not? Or is it Saruman of Many Colours?" Ghastly laughter boomed around the small chamber as Saruman cringed in shame.

"And ... why ... are those _bosoms_?"

More horrible laughter.

The multi-coloured wizard wondered what his hated ally would do if he picked the blasted Palantír off its cursed plinth and smashed it against a wall. But the Eye was too busy reverberating with laughter to contemplate such a reaction. He watched it swell and ebb violently, and viciously wished it would laugh so much that it might leak tears and extinguish itself forever.

No such luck. Instead, the Dark Lord laughed as he had never before heard him. It was several (long) minutes before the fiery orb could control itself enough to speak once more.

"I see you did not escape your encounters with these foreign Istari unscathed, my friend," cackled Sauron. "As a matter of fact, you look quite ill. I would even go as far as to say you look positively _green_."

Saruman glared at the Palantír in annoyance, wishing with all his heart that Isildur had possessed the strength of character to throw the One Ring into the fires of Mordor all those years ago, thus sparing him this humiliation.

"And," gasped the Eye, "I cannot tell for certain as I have never owned such myself, but I do believe that your magnificent chest should have more appropriate fittings. Perhaps a pretty dress to show it off in all its splendour?"

A hot flush crept up his neck and raced across his cheeks, turning his green skin a slightly darker, more purple shade. That was vastly unfair of his so-called ally! A dress? What nonsense! Not one hour after Longbottom's curse had been inflicted on him, he had bound the hideous blights beneath several layers of stiff fabric, but the pain of restraining them thus had been almost excruciating and the bandages had been removed before dawn broke the next day. He had later toyed with the idea of wearing a wide robe that buttoned down the front, hoping that his hated bosoms would not be as conspicuous beneath its folds. But the useless garment had not been wide enough and - no matter what he did - there was always a gaping space between the buttons that traversed his cleavage, giving anyone who cared to look a most seductive eyeful. How on earth did women endure this?

Enough! The time for sympathising with Womankind had passed! The time to take control of the situation had come.

Taking a deep, steady breath, he narrowed his eyes and gazed directly into the Palantír.

"As you can see, Sauron, the power of these Istari is not to be underestimated."

If the Eye objected to being so intimately addressed, it did not betray itself and the cackles it emitted subsided at a natural rate as the Dark Lord regained control over his emotions.

"I agree, Saruman - now more than ever. Nay, my friend, do not be so hasty to take offence, I speak my mind in all seriousness. Any Istar who has the power to contend with the might of Isengard and inflict such ... _damage_ ... to the White Wizard cannot be allowed to roam the lands of Arda unchecked, for such a threat to you is also a threat to me. I spoke of possible weaknesses that these Istari may have. Tell me: did you notice any during your ..._ encounters _... with them?"

Relieved to have the conversation back on track, Saruman frowned thoughtfully. The Longbottom hag (curse her!) was a force unto herself. He had humiliated her, caused her physical harm, starved her, taunted her and left her to the mercy of the elements - yet still she had escaped her prison. The boy had effectively deflected his curses and - he flushed at the memory - had the unmitigated gall to approach him and chastise him for not being able to _decide on one colour and go with it_ (all the more infuriating now with his belated realisation that the child's own kin had been the cause of his unflattering complexion). And the Red Witch (curse her too!) was a ball of flying fury who had cursed him in word _and_ deed, before hitting him with, surely, the most embarrassing ailment he had ever suffered from.

And now it appeared that one of them had actually _slain a Nazgûl!_

It was imperative that he separate these strangers from the Fellowship and capture the One Ring for himself. If they managed to get the Ring-bearer to Mordor ...

Well, he had seen with his own eyes how easy it was for the aged hag to make herself invisible to the naked eye; she did not require a magic Ring to aid her with that. It would be of no matter to her or any of the others to render the hobbit invisible without the use of Sauron's trinket and spirit him across to Mount Doom, where he could fulfil the duty that had been pressed upon him by the deceased Grey Wizard.

But _where_ was their weakness? Even without their staffs, they appeared to have command over their magic - albeit greatly reduced. How was he to contend with such as that?

The answer came to him quicker than a Longbottom curse and he gave a smile of genuine emotion as he finally replied to the Eye's query.

"Yes. I did notice one weakness that may be of great import in their downfall. It would debilitate them utterly, leaving their allies to flounder uselessly without their aid and allowing our armies to crush, once and for all, the so-called Free People of the West."

"Is that so? And what is this weakness?"

"The boy."

"The boy?"

"The _boy_. If we capture the Wizard-boy, the Witches will not rest until he is found. They will abandon their newly-formed friendships with Men without a second thought."

The Eye of Sauron was not as convinced of this as Saruman "I fail to see how the loss of one boy could cause two such powerful Witches to so lightly abandon their allies. If they are here to take up arms with them against us, then it is natural to assume they may expect casualties amidst their own ranks. Istari are not all-powerful, as the demise of Gandalf has surely demonstrated to them."

Smirking, Saruman leaned a little closer to the Palantír and spoke in a low, almost intimate manner. "But did I not say that the Red Witch _protected_ him?"

"What of it," hissed the Eye in irritation. "This overrated maternal instinct will only ensure the capture of one of his companions."

"Perhaps I forgot to mention the boy's name, my friend," continued the wizard smugly. "How remiss of me - let me attend to that now: his name is _Neville Longbottom_."

Supremely confident of the impact the name would have, Saruman stood back and squared his shoulders as the Eye absorbed this information. Another dark cackle resounded throughout the chamber (though, mercifully, this time not at his expense).

"Longbottom? A child of Istari indeed! It is comforting to know that the unsightly protuberances which mar your head have not addled your wits, my friend. An excellent strategy: capture the boy - and both his protector and kin will follow, leaving the people of Arda defenceless once more. You are to be commended."

The smug grin that graced Saruman's face slipped off at the mention of 'unsightly protuberances' - he had completely forgotten about the mutilated horns until that moment ...

"Do you have a plan, my curvaceous friend?" hissed the Eye in amusement, clearly enjoying his discomfort.

Trying (unsuccessfully) not to glower, the fallen Maia spent the next ten minutes outlining his strategy of attack against the new Enemy of Isengard and Mordor - a plan that would split his ally's forces further whilst allowing _him_ the luxury of continuing his search for the Ring-bearer.

"I expect only one thing if you should capture them before my soldiers do," said Saruman after the finer details of the plan had been fleshed out.

"Expect? You make demands of the Lord of Mordor, White Wizard? Truly you have grown bold. Perhaps I aught to be concerned?"

The Dark Lord's voice was dangerously low and Saruman almost kicked himself for his poor choice of words. It would not do to reveal himself so soon!

"Forgive me, my friend. I beg your indulgence in asking for a _favour_," he amended smoothly. It worked.

"Continue."

"If you should capture these foreign Istari before I do, I ask only that you send me the Longbottom Witch. We have ... _unfinished business_ … to attend to."

"As you wish. But only on the condition that she is not the one who destroyed my servant, for if she is, then _she_ and _I _shall have business of our own to attend to first. Your wounded pride will be of no import next to the wrath of Sauron."

It was an unsatisfactory compromise, for he knew Sauron would have to torture all three to the brink of death before he found the culprit responsible for slaying his precious Nazgûl, yet it was better than nothing. Perhaps Fate would smile upon him and deliver the hated Longbottom hag (curse her!) into his hands first. The thought was enough to muster a convincing smile to his features and he nodded in apparent submission.

"The generosity of Sauron knows no bounds."

Really. _No_ bounds.

"Then, my friend, I believe this discussion has served its purpose. You will keep me apprised on the assault against the horse-lords?"

It was not a question, it was an order and they both knew it.

"Certainly."

"Good. And I look forward to delivering the gift of your talented adversary, if circumstance permits it."

Which meant "when I have finished with her".

"But then again, I may find it within my heart to bestow the mercy of a swift death upon this foreign Witch."

The Istar narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Mercy. Of a swift death? For what? What was he talking about? Any fool with an ounce of self-awareness knew that the Dark Lord Sauron was not capable of _mercy_.

And he was not known for his generosity of heart either; in fact, he did not _possess_ a heart.

Just a great, flaming Eye!

The devious villain was sporting with him, trying to deny him his prize! Curse him!

"After all," continued the Eye, oblivious to the fuming wizard's thoughts and cackling darkly, "she has just delivered me with the best laugh I have had in Ages. Literally _Ages_."

Saruman cursed the Valar for linking his fate so inextricably with this lying, one-eyed, backstabbing despot.

The Eye of Sauron began to recede into the depths of the Palantír, signalling the end of their conversation.

But not before delivering one final, humiliating sting.

"Until we meet again, White Wizard - although, perhaps under the circumstances, I should say White _Witch_? Or Saruman of Many Colours? Perhaps Saruman of Unsightly Protuberances?"

And with a final evil cackle, the Eye was gone.

For many minutes, the ancient Istar stood in front of the black sphere that had housed his unfavourable guest, glowering at it with a loathing so deep he feared it may consume him. It took all his self control not to pick the cursed thing up and dash it against the wall, as he had wished to earlier.

So, Sauron thought to make sport with _him_? To play word games with _him_? To laugh at _HIM_!

So be it! Not for long would the Dark Lord laugh once his 'ally' claimed his precious Ring for himself! Saruman of Many Colours? Little did the fool know it was a name _he_ had bestowed upon _himself_ (and then quickly shed after the Longbottom hag (curse her!) had made it a shocking reality)! The only wits that were addled in all Middle Earth were the ones that hovered high above the Tower of Barad-dúr in the unnatural form of a fiery orb.

A tower that he, with the aid of Sauron's own prize, would bring crashing down!

But not before the deluded Lord of Mordor took care of a few irritating loose ends for him. Like the foreign Istari.

With these comforting thoughts, Saruman turned on his heel and made his way back into the main hall, absently scratching at his bits as he waddled.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Author's Note_: MASSIVE apologies for the untimely delay, but I absolutely had to take a prolonged break because this story was overtaking my life and I was beginning to doubt my ability to keep the thread of humour, etc alive.

I hope I haven't lost too many readers with this delay, and I apologise to those of you who have waited patiently for an update. But I am sure that you will understand that sometimes, you just have to step back from the edge and get your bearings again. I've done that now and am ready to continue with this story. Hopefully, you are ready to continue with me (and Nev, Molly, Augusta, etc.)

Updates will probably not be as often as weekly this time, but only because I don't want to mess this up. Rest assured, I have never abandoned a story and I never will.

Hope you enjoyed this chapter, and that you found it worth waiting for.

Love,

Kara's Aunty ;)


	16. Rangers and House-elfs

**Disclaimer**_:_ Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. and Lord of the Rings and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

**Credit_:_ **www dot hp-encyclopedia dot com and www dot Tuckborough dot net

**Please review - it really is my only reward.**

**Note:** For my cousins across the pond, it's all in good fun! You'll know what I mean when you read on...

**Not Quite A Maia**

**Chapter 16**

* * *

_3 days earlier (Third Age: 29th__ February 3019)_

_Imladris_

Before breakfast on the morning after her arrival in Imladris, Augusta was escorted from her (biological stain-free) chamber (such an improvement on the dungeons of Orthanc - not a bucket in sight!) to what Elariel, the pretty girl she had met the day previously, called the healing room. It was a large, airy room with several beds overlooking the courtyard and inside stood her smiling host, who welcomed her warmly and requested permission to check on the progress of both her ankle and arm.

Insisting that they were much improved, she nevertheless acquiesced to his gentle demands (he threatened to put her under the spell of 'elf-magic' and disrobe her himself if he had to - an odd threat actually for she hadn't seen a house-elf since her arrival) and allowed him to tend to her injuries. Once he was satisfied that she was in no imminent danger of expiring from them, the graceful man put a light bandage on her ankle for support and rubbed some pleasantly scented ointment on her bruised shoulder.

It was only as he was dressing her ankle that she noticed the pointed tips of his ears.

How strange. Why hadn't she noticed that last night? Still, it had been a very hectic few days and she had been exceedingly tired. Never mind. But how had the poor fellow come about them? Perhaps he had been hexed by some cad of a wizard (she immediately suspected Saruman)? Or maybe they were an unfortunate inheritance from his parents? She stared at them thoughtfully as he wrapped soft cloths around her foot. One quick wave of her wand could fix them, of course. But would it be indelicate to offer? He may have accepted his little misfortune and learned to live with it - the last thing she wanted to do was make him feel uncomfortable by drawing attention to it.

Once Elrond had finished his ministrations (and she had stopped staring at his ears), Augusta politely thanked him for his troubles.

"It was my pleasure, my Lady," he said, still smiling, before enquiring: "I hope that you slept well after you retired yester-eve?"

"As a matter of fact, I did. I must say, the accommodations in your charming abode are infinitely superior to Orthanc's! Such beautiful furnishings. Most impressive, young man. You are to be commended on your excellent taste!"

His smile widened as he dipped his head in a grateful nod. "You are most kind to say so, Lady Augusta. Here in Imladris, we always endeavour to see to the comfort of our guests."

Augusta highly approved. When she finally did write to the New Zealand Tourist Information Board, she would be sure to mention the outstanding quality of Imladris' accommodations and its exceedingly personable proprietor.

This thought reminded her of her intent to contact the country's Ministry of Magic, and she was just about to ask him its location, when the door behind them opened, heralding the arrival of a third party.

"A blessed morn to you, my Lord," announced a tall, blond man in a cream tunic and some rather shockingly tight trousers. He nodded his head respectfully at her host. The stranger's left arm was in a sling of sorts which was secured behind his neck.

"Lindir," replied Elrond, nodding in turn.

The stranger - Lindir - approached them and stopped before her.

"Mae govannen, Lady Augusta," he said cheerfully.

His 'govannen'? What on earth was a 'govannen'? Was it a bed? Was she perhaps sitting on his bed and he was asking for it back? Heavens! There were plenty of other empty beds available - why couldn't he sit on one of them and wait his turn to have his injury checked there? It was only polite, after all.

The new arrival spotted the confusion on her face. "Forgive me, my Lady. I mean 'well met'. It is a Sindarin greeting."

Ah. Local lingo. Well, that's alright then.

He continued. "I am Lindir, my Lady. We met yester-eve."

No 'we' didn't. She would have remembered such a chirpy, fine-looking fellow.

"I'm terribly sorry, young man, but I don't seem to recall being introduced to you at all," she said.

"We were not properly introduced at the time," he replied, still grinning. "You had just assisted us with a little trouble on the borders of our land and afterwards offered me your seat on the Windlord Gwaihir to aid me home."

Of course! The brave young chap with the arrow.

"Well," she said, rising from the edge of the bed and affording him a more thorough assessment with her sharp blue gaze. "You'll have to forgive me, young man, for not introducing myself properly at the time. My eyesight isn't what it used to be -"

A blatant lie. But it wouldn't do to tell the poor chap that she'd been too mortified to come any closer after getting the most unfortunate whiff of her unwashed armpits.

"- and I was excessively tired after all the excitement."

"On the contrary, Lady, I thought your eyesight to be excellent - as well as your aim. But you need not apologise for the lack of introduction. Your timely assistance was all the assurance that my companions and I required to know that you are Elvellon - that is 'Elf friend'," said Lindir with an elegant bow of his head.

Elf friend? Well, no one had ever said _that_ to her before! Not that she wasn't flattered, of course - she was the most open-minded person she knew (apart from Aberforth Dumbledore: anyone who practised 'unnatural charms on a goat' was probably open to just about anything). But Merlin's wand! These New Zealanders were certainly fond of their house-elves. What was so special about the little creatures? And where the deuce were they hiding themselves? Surely if they were such a hit with the locals, there would be evidence of them everywhere? Perhaps one or two of them strolling through the grounds every now and then in silk tea-towels, airily fending off autograph hunters like the two chaps in front of her?

The formidable granny stole a brief glance out the window, but could see no evidence of the short-legged, big-eared house-elves who so impressed her hosts. Perhaps they were down in the kitchen making breakfast (and getting drunk on butterbeer)? That must be it.

Returning her gaze to Lindir, she offered a thin-lipped smile. "Well, it's very kind of you to accord me such a high honour, I'm sure, but I must take this opportunity to tell you what a very brave chap you are for keeping a stiff upper lip after being shot by those horrid orcs. And insisting afterwards that you were perfectly able to make your way home with your friends, too! Obviously, you were quite right about that, for here you are and healing nicely, I see. I am most impressed. No doubt you have English blood flowing through your veins somewhere."

Lindir grinned at her as if she had just awarded him a box of Chocolate Frogs after winning a Gobstones competition. "You are too kind, my Lady."

"Now, young man, enough of all the sentiments. Did you come to have your wound redressed?"

"Nay, I did not. I came in search of you, Lady Augusta, to thank you for your aid and also to escort Imladris' most honourable defender to breakfast in the dining hall, if you are amenable to the offer."

What a perfectly tip-top fellow! How utterly charming of him!

"Well that is exceedingly kind of you, my good man," she declared, glancing at Elrond. "If we are finished here for the moment?"

The dark-haired man smiled and gave another one of his elegant nods (very graceful these…Imladrians. Imladrisians? _New Zealanders_!). "After you have broken your fast, I shall send someone to escort you to my study, that we may more fully discuss the issue of your kin."

Excellent! Finally she would be able to see about getting that scallywag of a grandson found. When she got her hands on that boy...

"You won't be joining us?"

"I have already eaten, my Lady, and have some pressing matters that require my immediate attention."

"I see. Well, until later, my good fellow."

Giving her generous host a brisk nod of thanks, she took the arm offered by Lindir and left Elrond to the sanctuary of his pretty little hospital ward while the tall blond man escorted her across the long wooden terraces and under a marbled archway. They exchanged pleasantries as they passed through another hall and her companion mentioned a fondness for singing which perked her interest. It was most refreshing to hear that Elrond's people partook of such civilised pastimes. Perhaps this corner of New Zealand wasn't so very backwards after all!

She was just about to ask if he had heard of her favourite artiste, Celestina Warbeck, (and perhaps persuade him to give her a rendition of _You Charmed the Heart Right Out of Me _later that evening if he had) when they passed through a set of doors into a large, high-beamed room with a raised dais at the opposite end. Tall, arched windows on the left flooded the room with light, while brackets around the remaining walls held heavy, moulded candles, ready to be lit when dusk approached. A long table ran through the centre of the hall, with polished benches on either side and several men (some of whom were extraordinarily handsome) populated the far end of it. Near the windows, a breakfast buffet of sorts awaited hungry residents, allowing each to choose their own repast as befitted their own desire. A polite cough from behind heralded another new arrival and Augusta stepped aside to allow him passage. The smiling man nodded gratefully and walked past carrying a large, silver tray laden with freshly baked rolls to the window and set it down by the other trays of food.

Her stomach rumbled as the lingering smell of the tantalising bread wafted up her nostrils, and Lindir grinned broadly. "I believe it is time to sate the growling beast," he said, eyes twinkling merrily.

She threw him a suspicious glance, hoping (for his sake) he was referring to her stomach. It would be a pity to have to revaluate her high opinion of him...

Still smiling, he led her to the windows and indicated that she choose her desired dishes, which he (gentleman that he was) loaded on to a small tray. Soon, it was generously covered with a bread roll, soft cheese, butter, a delicate glass bowl with something similar to fruit compote and - much to her delight - a milky, oatmeal dish that could only be...porridge!

How perfectly spiffing! It was comforting to know that, even in the far-flung reaches of magical New Zealand, some things remained constant.

Lindir attempted to lift her tray with his good hand, but she brushed it off. "It's very kind of you, young fellow, but I can't allow you to go to such trouble when I have the use of two arms and you don't."

"My Lady, I assure you that it is no inconvenience..."

"No, my good man. I absolutely insist. Now, you go ahead, choose your own dishes and I shall see to it that both our trays reach the table together."

He was about to object, but Augusta arched her eyebrow (daring him to argue) and he thought the better of it. Soon, he had selected his food and gallantly escorted her to the table while she charmed their trays to float ahead.

The sight of the two trays floating through the air was enough to still the activity of every last person sitting at the table and grown men watched like wide-eyed children as the trays stopped in mid-air before it. Augusta flicked her wand discreetly and the plates and dishes of food hopped on to the table and the trays whizzed back to their stand at the window and settled down once more.

"There. That wasn't so bad now, was it? she said to Lindir, before addressing the occupants at the table with a brisk "Good morning, gentlemen."

Several excited whispers and murmurings of 'the Green Witch' drifted to the newcomers' ears.

Ears. Hmm. How odd - Lindir appeared to be cursed with the very same affliction as Elrond. In fact, she noted as her eyes ran over the assembled company, _several _of them were suffering from it. Gracious, had Saruman hexed them en masse? The scoundrel!

Feeling very glad that she had managed to give the grubby wizard a taste of his own medicine, she moved to take her seat when a few of the men breakfasting nearby sprang up and bowed politely.

What a decidedly well-mannered bunch of fellows they were! It was not very often that the elderly witch was so impressed by strangers. In fact, for many years, one of her main grumbles was that she hadn't had the pleasure of meeting a true gentleman since the forties (her late husband, tired of hearing the mantra, had once asked if she was referring to the _eighteen_ forties - she hadn't spoken to him for a full week afterwards). But _this_ splendid company was beginning to restore her faith in the youth of the day!

"Lady Augusta, allow me to introduce Halbarad, one of the captains of the Rangers of the North," said Lindir indicating a tall, lean chap wearing a green shirt over dark trousers. He had shaggy, shoulder-length dark hair and grey eyes. "I believe you met briefly in the courtyard upon your arrival yester-eve?"

She had? Augusta peered at the smiling face of Halbarad for a second before it dawned on her. Ah, yes, the smelly fellow who had hauled her off Gwaihir's back as if he'd been some sort of lascivious Viking conqueror.

Halbarad bowed courteously. "Lady Augusta, allow me to welcome you to our company this fine morn. Would you do us the honour of joining us to break your fast?"

Her breakfast was sitting right next to his on the table - she was joining him whether he liked it or not. She stifled a smile as he offered her his hand.

"Good morning, young man. I am vastly relieved to see that you and your friends have had a decent scrub since we last met..."

She indicated a row of damp heads and shiny faces around the table and every man she pointed to flushed.

"...very relieved. It would be most inconvenient to lose my appetite before I even had the chance to sample my host's excellent fare. And I would be delighted to join you for breakfast - as long as you promise not to throw me over your shoulder again."

Those within earshot (which was everyone, given that she made no attempt to be discreet in her welcome) chuckled and Halbarad coloured (again).

"I will endeavour to resist the temptation, my Lady," he promised, taking her hand and assisting her as she stepped over the bench to sit down. Heavens - whatever happened to simple chairs? Her hips would not stand for this sort of abuse on a regular basis.

Lindir took a seat to her left and soon all the other diners were sitting once again, staring in fascination at the colourful new arrival. Augusta was vastly relieved she had decided to leave Spot in her bedroom - their curiosity was awkward enough without the conversation-stopper that was her beloved hat. What on earth were they staring at? One would think they had never seen a woman before!

Attempting to dispel their attention and shame them into leaving her to eat in peace, she waved her hand at their plates in one smooth curve and said: "Well gentlemen? Bon appetit."

But they merely frowned in confusion.

Apparently, French was not a common phenomenon in this remote area of the planet. Which, in her opinion, was not necessarily a bad thing. Any country that boasted a garden pest as their national dish was not to be trusted (no matter how pretty their language was). Not to mention the frogs legs. Or onion soup.

Deciding to forego any further listing of the dubious culinary exploits of her Gallic brethren (in case she really _did _lose her appetite), Augusta began to tuck into her lovely bowl of New Zealand porridge. But no sooner had she lifted the first spoonful, than it became apparent that her companions were still staring at her.

Oh, it simply wouldn't do! Was she to be gawked at by complete strangers for the next half-hour?

"Gentlemen, is something the matter?" she asked in a brusque tone, irked that she was not to be given peace to enjoy her breakfast.

"Forgive us, Lady," replied one of the men shame-facedly. Lindir frowned at them in disapproval. "We meant not to interrupt your repast. It is merely that we have never met a Witch before."

Well, that was hardly a wonder if all they did was stare at them all the time. They had probably frightened them away!

"Yes, well, I'm beginning to realise that I am something of a novelty in this corner of the world. Most irregular," she replied, shaking her head in disbelief and lifting her spoon to her mouth. But before she could taste her porridge:

"Are there many Witches from whence you hail?"

The spoon wavered, then dropped as she lowered her hand with an impatient sigh.

"Of course. Or do you imagine wizards procreate alone?"

There was a muffled snort of laughter from the end of the opposite bench and, hoping the answer would suffice for the present, she raised her spoon again.

"We have not encountered a Wizard that procreates at all, my Lady. Such a thing is unheard of these days in Middle Earth."

"Then that explains why there are so few of them left," she said in a clipped voice, frowning at the inquisitive man sitting across from her. "Don't you agree?"

Her tone brooked no argument, and the rather startled man (very sensibly) nodded.

Good. Now, porridge...

The spoon had almost reached her lips when:

"Is it true that you are a mortal Witch, my Lady?"

Oh for goodness' sake! At this rate, she would starve to death! What was wrong with the inhabitants of this pretty place? Mortal witch, indeed. What else would she be? Saruman's curse had obviously damaged more than their ears!

The (very hungry) witch dropped her spoon back into the bowl with a clatter and glared at her inquisitor. "Young man, if you don't allow me to _eat my breakfast_, then you will shortly discover just how mortal I am - for I will expire before your very eyes. Does that answer your question?"

Her response elicited more muffled sniggers from around the table and the mortified man flushed at her reprimand.

"Forgive me, Lady. I allowed my curiosity to overtake my good manners. Please, do not allow me to disturb your repast any further."

"Thank you, my good fellow," she replied, lifting her spoon once more and (finally) enjoying the delicious oatmeal goodness of her porridge.

The men settled into their own conversations, allowing her the time she required to finish her breakfast in peace. Only after the last bite of bread and cheese was swallowed, and the last spoonful of fruit compote was cleared from her bowl, did she realise that she hadn't brought a cup of tea to the table.

Botheration.

"My Lady, is aught amiss?" enquired Lindir as she huffed in annoyance.

"I forgot to put a cup of tea on my tray."

Halbarad, looked puzzled. "Tea?"

"Yes, tea."

Clearly, the ranger wasn't any the wiser despite her affirmation. Did the fellow not know what tea was?

"You have heard of tea before, surely?" she asked the table at large. Many of the (less pretty) men swapped looks of confusion and her astonishment grew.

Heavens! Never heard of tea? How completely bizarre! Perhaps she wasn't in New Zealand at all? Perhaps, instead, she was in America? After all, she hadn't met an American yet who drank tea (in fact, she had never met an American at all).

Which could only mean one thing - she would be forced to endure ...

... coffee.

No! Absolutely not! No Englishwoman in her right mind would indulge on that awful stuff at this time of day. It simply wasn't civilised!

"Forgive me, Lady Augusta, but rarely do the halls of Imladris see the leaves of the tea plant," offered Lindir, looking very apologetic. "However, I do believe that Master Bilbo has his own personal supply. I am sure he would be delighted to offer a cup of his favourite beverage to one who so obviously shares his appreciation of it. Shall I call at his chamber and make enquiries to this end?"

Augusta was sorely tempted, but she didn't have the heart to send the poor fellow off to beg for a cup of tea on her behalf at the door of someone she hadn't even been introduced to.

"That's very obliging of you, young man, but there's no need to go to all that trouble. I'll take care of it myself."

At his puzzled look, she pointed her wand at the table near the window. Several silver mugs sat next to a stack of plates and cutlery and many eyes in the hall widened as one of them lifted itself up and whizzed over to the table to land gently in front of her.

"May I offer you blackberry juice, my Lady?" enquired another of the men across from her. He rose swiftly and extended his hand towards one of the tall jugs dotted over the length of the table.

"Finthwael, Imladris' resident carpenter," whispered Lindir discreetly behind his own mug of (presumably) blackberry juice.

But before she had a chance to thank either Finthwael for being so courteous, or Lindir for his supply of the carpenter's name (not that she would use it), Halbarad turned his head and addressed the elderly witch.

"Or perhaps you would prefer ale, my Lady?"

Finthwael shot the ranger a quick frown, annoyed that the now pleasantly-scented man had stolen her attention, but Augusta was far too flabbergasted to notice.

Ale? Why, it wasn't even nine o' clock in the morning! What did he take her for?

"Gracious, no, young man! I am a grandmother, you know. Only a hardened alcoholic would imbibe on a mugful of ale at this time of day!" she declared righteously, using her hand to fan her face as the image of Neville jumping out of the secret entry at the Room of Requirement into the Hog's Head to find her trying to drink Hagrid under the table flashed through her mind.

"Alcoholic?" queried Halbarad in confusion.

If Augusta hadn't been sitting down already, she would have fallen down in shock.

"Yes, alcoholic," she repeated, almost aghast that the word was so clearly unfamiliar to him. "You know what an alcoholic is, surely? Someone who guzzles spirits, beers or wines at any and all time of the day? You can usually spot them a mile off: unwashed and malodorous types that drink their meals instead of eating them."

Several of the bearded men spluttered into their mugs before thumping them hastily on the table and pushing them as far away as possible.

The ranger turned a very unflattering shade of red. "Ah, I see. A lover of cups."

A lover of cups? What very odd vernacular these chaps used.

Lindir was gasping with laughter (as were several of the exceedingly handsome men) and she gazed at him in astonishment.

"Forgive me, Lady, it is just that I have rarely seen the Rangers of the North so..."

Halbarad eyed the blond man murderously.

"...united in agreement with a guest." finished the elegant chap.

Halbarad relaxed.

Yes, well, was that any wonder? They were quite obviously as shocked as she was at the thought of lager louts popping over to join them for breakfast.

Augusta returned her attention to her own (alcohol-free) mug and studied the receptacle critically. It really was a deal too large for tea. Only philistines (and Americans) drank hot beverages from a mug. Ladies used cups. With that in mind, she pulled her wand from her pocket and Transfigured it into a blue and white china cup with matching saucer. Her audience gasped in astonishment.

And they nearly fell off the benches in shock when she pointed the tip at the base of the cup and a jet of hot, brown tea spilled into it.

Of course," she said to Lindir, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for wood to spout liquid (which, to her, it was), "it never really tastes quite the same this way. Still, we must do our best in these difficult times, I suppose."

"By the Valar!" declared Halbarad, deeply impressed as she finished filling her cup and pocketed her wand. "How is it you are able to store so much liquid in your staff, my Lady?"

'Staff' again. It was a good thing she was getting a grasp on the lingo of the land - the only good thing she could say about her stay in Orthanc.

"Magic, of course," she replied, taking a dainty sip of her favourite brew. Ahh! That was _much_ better.

"You must be a powerful Witch indeed if you can turn solid silver into such a delicate object, my Lady," said the awed voice of the man who had been so inquisitive before breakfast.

"Not at all. Any bright twelve year old can do that, if they apply themselves properly. And you are...?"

He was unable to answer, still fascinated by the blue and white, willow-patterned cup and saucer.

"Garathor," supplied Lindir helpfully. It appeared the wounded singer was one of the few present still able to verbalise. What jolly good luck that he had accompanied her to breakfast.

Augusta nodded her gratitude and addressed the young ranger once more. "Well, young man, would you care to try a nice cup of tea for yourself? In fact, I'd be delighted to introduce all of you to the wonders of this magnificent beverage," she announced to the table at large, thrilled at the opportunity of bringing civilisation to the masses. "No doubt you're all tired of blackberry juice - and I don't blame you: terribly cloying stuff."

At least four of the rangers made a grab for their mugs and cradled them protectively, while the rest shared guilty looks with each other.

"Thank you, my Lady. You are most generous; but we have a great fondness for, em, blackberry juice," said Garathor, looking oddly concerned.

In fact, as her gaze swept the table, Augusta noted that many of those present were keen to avoid her eye and had taken to picking at the wooden surface or whistling casually.

There was only one way to deal with this...

"Oh, come now, gentlemen: you're not _afraid_, are you? A group of strapping fellows like you afraid of a cup of tea?"

A dozen sets of eyes swivelled to her instantly, each pair of them widened in outrage.

Men. So predictable.

"We do not fear a cup of this 'tea', Lady," declared Garathor hotly. "It is merely that..."

He trailed off as he looked longingly at his 'juice'.

"Yes?" she asked impatiently, staring at him in challenge.

Halbarad intervened. "It is merely that we are so very fond of our...blackberry juice."

Someone sitting next to him snorted and Augusta rolled her eyes impatiently.

"My good fellow, where is your sense of adventure? Now, why don't you set your men a fine example and be the first to try it, hmm?"

Before he could object, she waved her wand at his silver mug and Transfigured it into a matching cup and saucer. Five seconds later, it was filled almost to the brim with steaming hot Earl Grey. Halbarad's jaw dropped (though whether in wonder or dismay, none could rightly tell).

"Go on then," she encouraged bracingly. "Do give it a try."

The ranger gave a sigh of defeat and attempted to hook his fingers through the delicate handle, managing only to force one meaty digit into the tiny space. Tentatively, he held the opposite edge of the cup and raised it to his lips, blowing on the hot liquid before taking a cautious sip.

Augusta watched him with beady eyes, awaiting his verdict.

Placing the cup (rather clumsily) back in its saucer, he spared her a glance. "It is...interesting. A most unusual flavour."

Interesting? Unusual? How very ambiguous.

Seeing her frown, he hastily amended his words. "I mean, it is a very aromatic, delicate beverage."

"Yes, but did you _like_ it?" she demanded practically glowering at him as Lindir, Garathor and the others tried desperately to stifle their laughter.

"Most assuredly, my Lady."

Ah, excellent. She knew he would!

"Well, then, let's not deprive your friends of this little pleasure," she stated, wiping the smiles off everyone's faces as she briskly Transfigured every mug in sight and filled it with tea. Soon, Halbarad was the only man left with a grin on his face as his companions were subjected to the same grilling from the elderly witch he had endured minutes before.

Augusta was very pleased to see her new friends 'enjoying' their tea like civilised people. Of course, she should perhaps have offered them milk to go with it, but only a philistine (or a tea-drinking American - if there was such a thing) would put milk in Earl Grey and these strapping fellows were certainly able-bodied enough to enjoy the beverage the way it ought to be: pure and untainted by dairy products or sweeteners.

"So, young man, tell me: do you live in Imladris?" she asked the captain of the rangers between sips.

"Nay, Lady. I hail from the North, but duty calls me here to report to the Lord Elrond on matters of security," he replied, nursing his cup cautiously.

"Ah, yes: the war with that lunatic Sauron," she mused, thinking of her grandson and his probable role in their fight. Shaking her thoughts free of Neville until she spoke later with her host, she addressed the ranger again.

"No doubt your wife misses you a great deal when you're travelling. You are married, are you not?"

There was sadness in his voice when he answered. "I was, but alas, my wife has been dead for many years."

She could have happily kicked herself. The fellow obviously wasn't a day over forty, so he must have lost her at a very young age. "I am so dreadfully sorry for your loss, young man. I didn't mean to be insensitive. Do forgive me."

He offered a gentle smile. "There is no need for forgiveness, Lady Augusta. You could not have known. It was many years ago and, though I miss her greatly, I have accustomed myself to her loss as well as I must."

What a brave fellow he was!

"What of yourself, Lady Augusta?" enquired Garathor. "If you are a mortal Witch, are you then wed?"

"Yes, I was. But my husband died, too."

"I am saddened to hear it, my Lady," the young ranger said, looking rather uncomfortable at having posed the question in the first place.

"Nonsense, young man. It was a while ago now and I too have adjusted myself as well as I must," she said brusquely, giving Halbarad a knowing smile.

Garathor, ever inquisitive, continued his grilling. "Was your husband a Wizard?"

Augusta regarded the young man sitting across from her. He was more of a boy really, despite his whiskers. Couldn't be a day older than twenty-three. Ah well, she'd humour him and answer a few questions.

"Yes, he was a wizard. As are my son and my grandchild."

The table erupted into excited murmurings. Garathor was staring at her in wide-eyed awe.

"So many Wizards! What a wonder indeed!" he exclaimed, mightily impressed. Then: "Yet, Witch or not, it must have been difficult for you to raise your son alone after your husband's passing."

What?

"You must have misunderstood me, young man," Augusta cut in, eager to correct him. "My husband only died a few years ago. No more than a decade, actually My son was already an adult at the time."

Silence fell over the table as everyone ceased their murmuring and gazed at her in astonishment.

"He did not die in battle?" asked Finthwael in shock.

Mr Longbottom? Engage in battle? The thought was so absurd she almost laughed.

"Absolutely not. My husband was a pacifist at heart. He rarely raised his wand in anger."

Apart from the day Frank and Alice had been found Crucio-ed into senselessness. He had blasted half the furnishings into smithereens in his paternal rage, and would have taken out the unlucky Auror that had brought them the news, too, if she hadn't intervened.

Lindir and her other companions were muttering amongst themselves in confusion at the information. Garathor, the young ranger, frowned briefly, before his face cleared in understanding.

"Then perhaps he was ambushed by an enemy?"

A smattering of 'ooh's' and ah's made their way around the table in distinct approval of the suggestion.

"Certainly not," she answered tartly. There had never been anyone sly enough or quick enough to ambush Mr Longbottom (unless it was her).

She took another sip of her tea, frowning at Halbarad who was still nursing his pretty cup. The ranger quickly lifted it and took a healthy swallow.

But Garathor was not finished trying to determine the cause of her husband's death. Mystified, he scratched his dark head and scrunched his face in concentration while his colleagues continued to mutter among themselves.

"But of course!" he cried after a few moments of silent deliberation. "He was slain by a rival for your affections. He died defending your honour!"

The young ranger looked very relieved at having solved the mystery, but Augusta almost collapsed in shock.

"Are you suggesting that I was involved in some sort of illicit affair?" she gasped, half outraged, half amused.

Lindir's right elbow thumped on to the table and he dropped his forehead into the waiting hand and shook it.

The youth flushed like a toilet. "Nay, Lady! Forgive me, I meant no such thing!" he cried in horror as he read the shock on her face and realised his mistake.

"I should certainly hope not, you impertinent scallywag!" she declared. "Me, have an affair? Mr Longbottom, duelling for my honour? Not that he wouldn't have of course, but...Merlin's beard. You make our marriage sound like a cheap novel!"

Having no idea what a cheap novel was, poor Garathor tried desperately to placate her (in case she turned him into a blue and white cup too). But the youth, tripping over his own tongue in his haste, only managed to stutter that he was merely trying to ascertain the manner of her husband's death - a comment that earned him a smack on the arm from his neighbour and a harsh reprimand from Halbarad.

She finally recovered her senses (and normal sinus rhythm) enough to realise that Halbarad was speaking to her.

"Forgive him, Lady Augusta. Garathor is young and not used to such genteel company after his long travels. He has been learning the skills required for his duties as a Ranger for the past two years and is only in Imladris for short duration every six months before he must return to his duties in relative isolation."

Relative isolation? Where had they been hiding him?

Sensing her surprise, Halbarad elaborated. "As war approaches and we prepare for conflict, it is important that we ensure the borders of all free lands are protected. Therefore, Garathor - and many others here - has not known the warm embrace of his mother or the kind concerns of his sisters of late. He requires some time to reacquaint himself with the company of high-born ladies."

As much as Augusta was flattered to be considered a 'high-born lady', she very much hoped that Halbarad wasn't expecting her to leap over the table and start fawning over the boy.

"I am certain he meant not to offend you with his indelicate inquiry. I hope that you can find it in your heart to be gentle with him," finished the captain, giving her pockets a sidelong glance.

Garathor gulped audibly.

Merlin's beard! Did they actually think she was going to _curse_ the poor chap just for putting his foot in his mouth? Had she really given them that impression?

Still, the poor fellow was looking exceedingly miserable, staring into his cup as if he wanted nothing more than to dive in and drown himself in his Earl Grey. It would be a tragic end to such a short life.

And a waste of a perfectly good cup of tea.

Oh, botheration! She was so dreadfully uncomfortable with sentimentality.

"Now, now, young fellow. Chin up," she said in what she hoped was an encouraging voice.

Garathor, thinking it was a command, snapped to attention in his seat.

Oh well.

"I don't mean chin _literally _up, young man. What I mean is...take heart. I'm not in the habit of hexing innocents just because they trip over their own tongues. Think no more of your little gaffe. I know very well that you meant no ill by it. I was merely...startled."

To say the least.

"Now, if you had said something _really_ stupid and with genuinely malicious intent, I might have been tempted to teach you a lesson. But I doubt very much that _you_ have a vindictive bone in your body."

There! A tiny little smile. But he still looked like a Malfoy with an empty Gringotts vault. She'd have to put a little more effort into it. Suppressing a sigh of impatience, she did her best.

"For instance, are you aware that I was held prisoner by Saruman?"

There were very few gasps of surprise, for almost everyone present had heard her cursing the brute's hospitality when she arrived the night before. But they had not been privy to the details she had shared with Elrond and Erestor later on, and it wouldn't hurt to give them a few now if it helped to cheer up Garathor (which would have the added bonus of saving Earl Grey from a fate worse than death).

"Well," she continued, "that frightful fellow said some despicable things to me. Absolutely _no_ manners to speak of! So I jolly well taught him some!"

"And how did you do that, Lady Augusta," breathed Garathor, freed from his doldrums and gazing at her in wide-eyed anticipation.

It was easier to show him.

"_Engorgio_!"

The hall erupted into raucous laughter as the poor man leapt from his seat with a bellow of horror, clutching at his unnaturally expansive chest and attempting (uselessly) to flatten it.

"Don't worry, young man. I have every intention of removing them. _Finite Incantatem_!"

The spell lifted and Garathor almost fainted in relief. But the laughter rolled on and on as men all over the hall cried with mirth. Lindir could barely draw breath and the poor chap at the edge of the bench fell off his seat in convulsions of laughter.

"Of course, I never lifted the deuced curse off _him_," said Augusta primly. "He's probably skulking around his ghastly tower in an oversized coat, if he hasn't managed to strap them down yet. But my point, young man, is that you needn't worry about a mere slip of the tongue. Your manners are vastly superior to his, though perhaps it _would_ be best if you reined in your youthful curiosity at times."

Garathor was nodding his head in violent agreement as he retook his seat, and the men on either side of him slapped his back cheerfully.

Pleased to see that he was no longer wallowing in misery (being far too concerned with assuring himself over and over again of the manliness of his chest), Augusta took a satisfied sip of her tea before revealing how Mr Longbottom had met his doom.

"In answer to your question, though, my husband died peacefully in his sleep."

"In his sleep?" enquired Halbarad in surprise.

"Yes."

"_Peacefully_?"

Augusta frowned. Why had he said it like that? It wasn't unheard of for someone to die peacefully in their sleep!

"Of course, peacefully," she said irritably.

But her tone did not deter the captain. In fact, most of the men (having recovered from the sight of a full-bosomed Garathor), were now watching her speculatively.

"Do you mean to say that he died of _natural_ causes?" Halbarad asked, gaping in disbelief.

She shot him a heated glare. What was _that_ supposed to mean?

"Of course he died of natural causes - he was over eighty! Or do imagine I murdered him in his bed?" she barked, incensed.

Halbarad's hands automatically rose to cover his chest as she glowered at him, triggering another wave of hearty guffaws from his comrades.

"Nay!" he said (rather desperately). "Forgive the inquiry. It is merely that in these times of strife, for Men to live to such an age - especially a Wizard of good intent, as I am certain your noble husband was - is unusual."

"Ah, yes, well - oh, do put your hands down, for goodness' sake! - it's surely not _that_ unusual. Not everyone is young enough or fit enough to head off to the front lines, you know."

Before he could respond either way, a voice behind her answered on his behalf.

"You must excuse our Dúnedain captain, Lady Augusta, for he does not think properly without his morning mug of ale."

Halbarad and the rangers clutched their teacups and paled visibly, but she missed it as she glanced over her shoulder to see two identical men with matching blue tops (and more tight trousers) grinning down at her. Unless she was very much mistaken, they had been at the forest edge with Lindir the evening before. Oh, why hadn't she asked for their names before rushing off?

"Well, hello again, gentlemen. How very nice to see you once more," she said, exasperated with herself for being in such a hurry to leave the night before and hoping they would overlook her rudeness by offering their names.

To her relief, they did.

"Well met again, my Lady," replied the one on the left. "I am Elladan, son of Elrond and this is my brother, Elrohir. You were gracious enough to come to our aid yester-eve by the Bruinen."

He indicated the smiling figure to his right. Which was completely unnecessary of course. Any idiot could see that they were siblings.

But what did he mean by 'son of Elrond'? She had left her kind host not an hour ago, and unless she was very much mistaken, the fellow wasn't a day over thirty! Either it was a private joke between the Lord of Imladris and these two mischievous chaps (younger cousins, perhaps?), or something was afoot!

The imposing granny was so perplexed by their odd words, that their comment about ale and rangers went completely over her head. She swept her gaze over the room at large (and the rangers - believing their little deception had just been uncovered and they were about to be hexed into oblivion - held their collective breath) and noticed that not a single one present - other than herself - seemed to be a day over forty.

Why, that was it! She had just discovered the reason for Elrond's admiration of the house-elves...

Mass Glamour charms!

The sneaky Lord was using their elf-magic to disguise his wrinkles and receding hairline - and ordering them to afford the same courtesy to half his people!

Gracious! She had no idea New Zealanders were quite so vain. She sincerely hoped the house-elves were not being exploited by their (probably decrepit) master. Still, they were no doubt happy enough to do whatever he asked as long as he kept supplying the butterbeer. Pity they couldn't have fixed his ears though...

Certain that she had stumbled onto something, Augusta nodded at them politely, deciding not to reveal her new knowledge to the population at large. After all, didn't she have her little secrets too (such as her magically supported bosom)? Who was she to cast stones after he had been so hospitable?

"I'm delighted to make your full acquaintance, gentlemen," she said. "Do forgive me for leaving so quickly last night, but I was feeling the effects of all that cold night air and was quite desperate to warm my hands by a lovely fire."

Elladan answered. "You need not apologise to us, my Lady. Indeed, we are glad that the Windlord was able to bring you to comfort so quickly. Your swift flight from our company merely furnished us with the excitement of a mystery - something my brother and I are fond of - until our arrival a few hours later."

What a gentlemen he was! Smiling in approval, she invited them both to join her for breakfast, but was surprised when they declined.

"Our thanks, my Lady, but we have already broken our fast," explained the other brother apologetically. "We come only to escort you to our father if you are finished with your own meal."

Escort her to their father indeed! Now she knew why the sneaky Lord kept fobbing her off with 'escorts'. Why, he'd probably been stuck in that pretty little hospital wing for the past hour rubbing ointments onto his arthritic hips!

She took one final sip of her lukewarm Earl Grey before accepting the hands they offered to aid her from the bench (Elrond wasn't the only one with stiff joints) and bidding her other companions a polite farewell. Lindir said he hoped to see her later and she smiled thinly in agreement (still determined to get him to rattle out a Warbeck tune that evening). The other men stood and bowed politely while the twin sons of Elrond took an arm each and escorted her to the door. But just as they reached it, Augusta stopped.

"Young man," she asked in a voice that was sure to carry to the table behind her. "What was that you said about a 'morning mug'?"

A groan of despair and several muffled snorts of laughter drifted over to her ears as Elladan halted beside her and grinned rakishly.

"That Halbarad does not think properly first thing in the morning without one, my Lady."

That's what she _thought_ he'd said.

Pulling her arms free, she spun on her heel (alarmingly fast, despite her stiff joints) and glowered at the occupants of the table. Only the clean-shaven (exceedingly handsome) ones looked innocent. Every last bearded face in sight was gazing out the window in sudden preoccupation.

"Is that so?" she seethed.

Why, those furry-faced, wide-eyed, honey-tongued scoundrels! They had successfully diverted her with all their good manners and 'my Lady's' and _fondness for blackberry juice_! She ought to hex their bits off for their devious rascality! And Lindir - her one hope for a decent song in all New Zealand - aiding and abetting their crime! She narrowed her eyes as they landed on the blond bombshell and the grin slipped slowly off his face.

"In their defence, Lady Augusta," chimed in Elrohir beside her (and looking far too smug to be _really_ concerned with defending them), "the ale on offer was but a very diluted version. It is often consumed by the Rangers of the North throughout the day in preference to blackberry juice or, indeed, the pure, fresh water that flows down the mountains yonder."

The Rangers of the North abandoned the lovely view out the window and glared at Elrohir in betrayal as her disapproving gaze swept over them. How shocking! And just when they had so recently impressed her with their squeaky clean skin and superb vernacular!

"Well, I hope you didn't object too much to swapping your blackberry juice for my lovely tea, _Halbarad_," she said, addressing the ranger by name for the first time (as if it were the worst possible insult she could think of).

The captain flushed. "Nay, my Lady. It was a refreshing change. The tea was - _is_ - delicious."

He was, without doubt, the worst liar she had ever met (apart from Neville).

"I'm delighted to hear it, young man. So delighted, in fact, that I insist you and your hairy friends join me tomorrow morning for breakfast as well, if I am still here. That way, I can continue to 'refresh' you with it."

A dozen jaws dropped in horror as everyone else rocked with mirth.

"That goes for you too, my good fellow!" she barked at Lindir, who had the temerity to snigger at the rangers when he had been complicit in their crime.

"But _I_ do not drink ale in the mornings!" he declared self-righteously.

She waved airily in the direction of Halbarad and his cohorts. "Neither, I was led to believe, do they. Now, if there are no more objections, I bid you all a very good morning, gentlemen."

And with that, she turned on her sensibly-shod heel and allowed herself to be 'escorted' to the decrepit, Glamour-ridden lord of the land, leaving the lager louts at the breakfast table to drown their sorrows.

In Earl Grey, of course.

**XXX**

Ten minutes later, Augusta was being escorted by Elladan and Elrohir, not to Elrond's study at all, but through passages she hadn't yet seen and down several flights of stairs out into a high garden above the steep bank of the river.

"Are we lost?" she asked in confusion.

One of the chaps (she had no idea which) laughed. "Nay, Lady. But there are, it seems, more attending this Council than may be comfortably settled in our father's study."

Gracious! That many? How many people did it take to help her find one missing boy?

Then again, the boy in question was a post-traumatic, highly deluded, seventeen year old Longbottom. She would need all the help she could get.

"Ah, well, excellent. The more the merrier. As long as they haven't brought blackberry juice with them."

Both her (very dashing) escorts laughed as they showed her to a rather crowded porch at the east side of the building. Her host rose from his seat at her appearance.

"I hope you enjoyed your breakfast, my Lady?" he enquired politely as he took a step forward to bow at her.

Augusta absently wondered if he really ought to be bending his back quite so much. With his arthritis, he could very well lock himself at the waist.

"Yes, thank you very much, my good fellow. It was most..._refreshing_," she replied, eliciting a chuckle from his sons.

"I am glad to hear it. With your permission, I have requested that my sons remain for our council, and also joining us is Erestor whom you met yester-eve."

The advisor gave her a warm smile as Elladan and Elrohir took their seats and she returned it as best she could (with a thin-lipped grimace).

"Allow me to present my daughter Arwen," continued Elrond indicating to his left. An extraordinarily beautiful young woman smiled at her beatifically.

Not normally one to gush, Augusta couldn't help but admire the lovely woman, with her elegant red dress, waist-length black hair (longer than even all the men's, which was saying a lot) and sparkling grey eyes.

"Well, aren't you an exceptionally pretty girl, young lady!" she declared, shocked into uncharacteristic flattery.

"How very kind of you to say," replied a smiling Arwen, without so much as a hint of a blush.

Hardly surprising, really. She must hear that sort of thing all the time. Deciding not to remark on it again (in case the girl's ego exploded into the stratosphere - for all Augusta knew, she could be a raving narcissist or a vicious shrew), she schooled her features once more into their usual look of faint disapproval (which only made Arwen smile more, if possible).

"Arwen is wise and far-seeing, she may be of aid to us in this Council," concluded her host after depleting his (exhaustive) supply of compliments on the wonders of his daughter.

Far seeing? Did he mean 'far-sighted'? Oh really! It was very unfair of Elrond to point out her poor vision to all and sundry after singing her praises for the past five minutes. How would he like it if she stood there and extolled his many virtues as a host, then topped it off by saying "...he is a middle-aged arthritic, who is fighting the steady encroach of his Winter years with a toothy smile and Glamour charms provided by butterbeer-soaked house-elfs"?

Augusta had a sudden rush of sympathy for the girl and gave Elrond a disapproving glare (much to his astonishment).

"Is aught amiss, my lady. Do you object to my daughter's presence?" he asked in deep confusion.

"Certainly not!" she retorted primly. "I am more than happy to have her present. And I think her eyes are very fine, regardless of how well they do or do not function."

She gave Arwen's hand a comforting pat and the young lady laughed merrily as her father stood at a temporary loss for words.

Movingly swiftly into the next introduction (after recovering himself), Elrond indicated a very tall chap wearing a gold-coloured shirt (she refused to look any further down - if she saw another pair of tight trousers that day, her heart might give out) with long blond hair.

"This is Glorfindel, late of Gondolin," he said cautiously, with a measured glance at the little old woman.

"_Very _late, my Lord," remarked Glorfindel, moving forward to bow elegantly at her. "Lady Augusta, allow me to express both my gratitude and my wonder at your timeous arrival yester-eve. In all the days of my life, I cannot recall a single experience that rivals the memory of your magnificent wrath against our common Enemy. It is an honour to finally meet the Green Witch in person."

Well! What a thoroughly decent thing to say! What superb manners the fellow had!

Very impressed with the golden-tongued chap, Augusta offered him a brisk nod. "You are most welcome young man. I am very glad to have been of service to such a well-spoken fellow. You are a credit to your parents, no doubt."

Glorfindel positively beamed (while Elladan and Elrohir sulked in their seats - she had not said _they_ were a credit to their parents).

As his was the last introduction to be made, Glorfindel ushered her to her seat in the little circle of chairs and she sank into it gratefully. How delightful to have a meeting outside, with the distant roar of a waterfall and the scent of pretty flowers. And not a bit cold either!

As if reading her mind, her host said: "I hope you do not object to holding council here, Lady Augusta. My study is not quite large enough to seat all of us comfortably, and no one will disturb us here with anything less than an urgent matter."

"I have no objection at all, my good man. I was just thinking how very pleasant it was."

He smiled in approval. "Then let us begin, shall we?"

An excellent idea!

"As you may be aware from their presence here, I have informed all our companions of your quest to seek out you grandson, the young Wizard Neville Longbottom."

Oh, really - if she didn't know her own grandson's name by now then what was she doing here?

"I have also informed our companions of your suspicions as to his presence here."

Yes, yes. Get on with it!

"But what you yourself are not aware of yet, Lady Augusta, is the most likely reason for his journey to Middle Earth."

Augusta ceased her mental encouragement and watched the (probably decrepit) Lord of Imladris suspiciously. There was a _more_ likely reason for the boy's jaunt than what her host had revealed last night? Was the Glamour-ous man holding out on her?

Elrond regarded her gravely. "What I am about to reveal to you is known by few outside this circle, Lady Augusta. For the sake of Middle Earth, I ask that you respect the very great need to keep it to yourself."

Sensing that she was about to hear some very delicate information, she refrained from clobbering him for asking her not to spill his secrets.

"I am not in the habit of divulging other people's confidences my good fellow, and certainly not if they involve my grandson. You have my word as a Longbottom that I shall remain tight-lipped on the subject."

He nodded in gratitude. "I had known you would reply thus, because I sensed from our very first meeting that you are a woman of honour. Nevertheless, I had to make the request. I hope you understand."

"Certainly. I am not offended. Please, do continue."

Within the next five seconds, preferably...

Obeying her silent wish (not that he was aware of it), the well-preserved (by house-elf magic) Lord started his tale:

"Many years ago, before the dawning of this Age, the Dark Lord Sauron - a powerful and evil Wizard - created a weapon that would see him conquer all Free Peoples of the West and beyond. It was a weapon of such terrible power that none could hope to defeat him while he held it. And though many rose in defiance of his dominion, Men and Elves alike, it was but by chance that he lost his weapon and was defeated. Isildur, the ancestor of the Rangers of the North whom you met yester-eve in the courtyard of my home, won a victory many hoped for, but none believed would ever be possible. But though the Dark Lord was vanquished, his weapon remained, and as long as it existed, it would have the power to facilitate the return of Sauron. Isildur, flushed with victory and enthralled by the power of Sauron's weapon, did not destroy it in Mordor as he aught, but kept it for himself and thus it led to his doom. He was slain by Enemy agents and the weapon was lost to all for thousands of years, allowing the Dark Lord to slowly gather his strength and rise to power again. Long have I cursed the folly of Isildur's choice! Long have I blamed myself for not acting more definitively!"

Arwen reached out to lay a comforting hand on her father's arm while Augusta mulled over what she had heard so far.

Gracious! Halbarad's foolish ancestor let this mysterious weapon vanish when he should have destroyed it? And now this Sauron chap had the power to return? No wonder Halbarad and the rangers were a bunch of raging alcoholics - they were ashamed of him! And weren't the house-elves of New Zealand an industrious lot, what with all that cooking, drinking and dark wizard-bashing! But, for pity's sake, Elrond was being rather harsh with himself. What could he possibly have done about events that happened so long ago? Glamour charms and middle-age notwithstanding, he wasn't _that_ old!

And what did this have to do with her grandson anyway? Had the man not said this...weapon...was lost?

_Lost. Dark Lord's weapon... _There was something vaguely familiar about that. What was it?

She tried to grasp the thought, but it was gone, and Elrond began to speak again before she had the chance to recover it.

"But the weapon has now been found, my Lady. Fortunately for us, it was recovered by an agent of the Light who knew not its true history or purpose. And now, it is being carried by his heir, also an ally, who will take it to the place of its birth and destroy it once and for all. It is the only way to ensure that Sauron's designs for conquering Middle Earth will never be realised."

The Longbottom matriarch frowned. "It's a very compelling story, my good fellow. Dangerous weapons, dark wizards, brave house-elves, men succumbing to temptation, allies setting off on a trip to set it all to rights again, but tell me - what does this have to do with my grandson? He can't be the heir of the chap who found it because he has no relations on this side of the world - on either of his parents' sides. So that rules out his carrying this mysterious weapon to Mordor. And the only reason I can imagine him being here, as I understood from our little chat last night, is that he is stepping in elsewhere for this Gandalf fellow to fight against Sauron's Death Eaters, or orcs, or whatever else the stupid man has inflicted on the poor people of your lands."

To her surprise, it was Erestor who answered.

"We suspect that your grandson may be attempting both deeds simultaneously, Lady."

Both at the same time? How ridiculous! It was as much as her grandson could do to yawn _and_ cover his mouth at the same time, let alone destroy a dark object and fight...

"Just a moment," she said, as realisation hit her. "Do you mean he's fighting _and_ carrying this weapon to its destruction? Why, he'll be as vulnerable as a broken Snitch!"

"Nay, my Lady," assured Elrond, intervening as her agitation rose. "_He_ does not carry the weapon, nor is it carried openly, for the forces of evil are searching far and wide for both it anyone who bears it. Therefore, it must be carried in secret. What my faithful counsellor means, is that your Neville aids the fight against Sauron by fulfilling Gandalf's place in its bearer's journey. He is the protector of the Fellowship which accompanies the bearer of Dark Lord's weapon."

_Power... Lost... Dark Lord... Middle Earth..._

Oh dash it all! What was it she was trying to remember...

There!

"_I will have the power to find the Ring and overthrow the Dark Lord Sauron. Middle Earth will be mine!"_

She gasped.

"Saruman!" she cried, leaping from her seat. "The weapon. The weapon is a ring, isn't it?"

Elrond and a few others had already risen in alarm at her gasp, but they all froze when she said 'ring', and she knew she had guessed correctly.

"That idiot wizard was rambling on about a ring just before we fought," she announced shrilly, half to them, half to herself as she paced back and forth. "Oh, I thought he was just prattling on about a new piece of jewellery, vain peacock that he is, but no!"

She stopped in her tracks and faced her host, face ashen. "He's looking for it too! He wants to use it to overthrow Sauron and rule New Zealand - I mean, Middle Earth! That's why he held me captive. He wanted my wand - my staff - to help him find it! That scoundrel will be hunting your Fellowship, too. Which means _he's hunting for my Neville_! Why, I've a good mind to go back there and knock the stuffing out of him!"

Arwen rose swiftly and caught the agitated witch gently in her grasp. "Nay, Lady Augusta. You must not! For in your maternal anger, you may inadvertently show our hand. Saruman is not yet aware that we know of his evil scheme. We may yet prevent this disaster if we curry patience. Please, sit by me. Let me ease your mind, I beg you."

Ha! Her mind would be eased a whole lot faster if she just popped off to Orthanc and trounced that raging megalomaniac into the bowels of hell with the aid of her very first Killing curse! Hunting her Neville? How dare he! No one _hunted_ her Neville!

Except her, of course.

Nevertheless, she allowed Arwen to lead her to the seat directly beside hers (forcing Elladan to move) and sat seething at the despicable despot while the pretty girl held her hand.

And the others talked.

"If Saruman searches for the Fellowship, he may well find them before Sauron's forces are able to, Ada. We know not how far their journey has carried them at this moment. They could very well be nearer Isengard than Mordor," said one of Elrond's sons, forcing Arwen to tighten her grip on Augusta's hand as the witch attempted to spring from her chair once more.

"And yet," offered Glorfindel sensibly, "we know that he had not found them when the Lady Augusta fled Orthanc, and that was but two days ago."

"I did not _flee_ Orthanc, young man! I flew off at my own leisure with victory under my belt!" snapped Augusta, never too agitated to allow the allusion of cowardice on her part to go unchallenged.

Elrond rolled his eyes in exasperation.

Fortunately for him, Augusta was too preoccupied to notice.

Glorfindel nodded a rather bemused apology in her direction. "Yet you see my point, my Lady, do you not? If the Fellowship has eluded him thus far so many weeks into their journey, then it is likely that they are beyond his grasp."

"Unless his agents have captured them farther afield," chipped in Erestor. "We know that he is in collusion with Sauron, but the Dark Lord may not be aware of his ally's scheme. Saruman is a powerful Wizard in his own right, after all."

"Not powerful enough to fend off an angry Longbottom - a lesson he learned two days ago. And I'll be delighted at the opportunity to teach it to him again if he so much as touches a hair on my boy's head!"

Elrond was sitting quietly, allowing everyone to vent their ideas (and in Augusta's case, fury). But he ended everyone's speculations by standing and raising a hand, effectively halting their discussion.

"So," he began in a low, but firm voice. "We believe that young Neville is now the Wizard protector of the Fellowship, and is accompanying Frodo, Aragorn and the others to Mordor. We do not know that Saruman is yet aware of his existence..."

He shot Augusta a questioning look.

"Well I certainly didn't tell the idiot about him!" she exclaimed in shock.

"It was an inquiry, my Lady, not an accusation," said Arwen gently.

"Oh, I see. I beg you pardon, my good fellow. There was no slight intended," the elderly witch said to her host.

"And none taken, my Lady. I know you speak only with fear for your grandson's safety in your heart," he replied with a nod, before addressing the assembled company.

"So, now we also believe that he is not yet aware of young Neville's existence. And finally, thanks to the unexpected intelligence we have from the Green Witch herself, we are aware that he plans to betray his ally's trust and seeks to find the One Ring for his own evil design."

Elrond took his seat as Augusta waited for his grand scheme to use all the facts at hand and produce her grandson from among them. Her host steepled his fingers in concentration.

And deliberated.

And deliberated a bit more.

What the deuce was taking the fellow so long? Why hadn't Neville magically appeared before her (which would, in any event, have been unlikely. But exceedingly convenient).

Finally, she couldn't take it any longer.

"Have you thought of anything yet?" she asked impatiently.

Despite the gravity of the situation, Glorfindel's lips curved into a smile.

"Ah, would that I could produce a plan to save us all as quickly as a mortal's agitated heart can flutter," her host said ruefully.

Oh for heaven's sake! What did that mean? What was it with these pretty folk and their obsession with mortality (a stupid question given that she already knew Elrond himself was trying desperately to stave off his own)?

He sighed. "I fear that the matter will not be as easily resolved as you - or indeed we all - would have it, my Lady. For matters are, sadly, more complex than may serve resolution's swift ease. We can only hope, for the moment, that Saruman is not aware of the Nine Walkers..."

Augusta frowned. Who the deuce were they?

"...and that their path has not been troubled by his intercession. We do know the Fellowship journey to Mordor, but we do not know their route and therefore it will make their location all the more difficult. That may be to our advantage and to our Enemy's folly. Yet, even if we were fortunate in our knowledge of their current position..."

Here, Elrond took a deep breath as he gazed at her cautiously.

"...the question remains as to whether or not we should intercede."

The furious Longbottom matriarch flew out of her seat and everyone flinched as she gave them the dubious benefit of her impressive lungpower.

"Now you listen to me, young man," she cried (completely forgetting her knowledge of his impending mortality), "I did not come all the way out here to listen to you tell me that you're just going to sit there and do nothing to help me find my boy!"

"My Lady, his aid is required - has been requested by the very Valar themselves. And you are not alone in your concern for kin. There are many who fear for the safety of their kin in these dark times," replied Elrond, remaining remarkably calm (damn him!) despite her wrath.

"That may very well be - and believe me, I sympathise completely. You have no idea how much - but Neville has no idea that there are now _two _swaggering idiots out looking for this blasted ring. Dash it all, that makes him twice the target he should be..."

Thrice, when she got her hands on him.

"...and that is unacceptable!"

"He and his fellow travellers are targets many times over without the influence of Saruman, for Sauron's agents are numerous and cunning."

That was _not_ what she wanted to hear! She faced him with one hand on her hip and one finger waving at him in accusation.

"So what you're telling me is, that even if you knew where he was, and even though you're aware that he is in the most excessive amount of danger - you are happy to sit there and do nothing to help me recover him?" she demanded angrily.

"I am not 'happy' with any of these circumstances, Lady!" declared Elrond, finally losing his patience as he leapt from his seat and stormed towards her.

She did not back down when he towered over her.

"I would be happy if Isildur had destroyed the Ring those many long years ago! I would be happy if this desperate quest of gentle Hobbits was not required at all. I would be happy if Gandalf had not fallen and made the necessity of bringing a seventeen-year-old boy into this battle absolute! I would be happy if my son were not walking into danger beside your grandchild, for if this quest fails, he will be amongst the first to perish!"

The little company stared in shock at the tall, Lordly man and little (but scary) Green Witch as they glared at each other.

But Augusta was looking into the stormy eyes of her host, and it dawned on her that they mirrored her own.

They reflected her own fear for a child.

Sighing, she dropped her accusing finger and - surprising him completely - used it to grasp his hand and pat it in comfort.

But what really threw him off balance was her use of his name.

"I know what it's like to fear for your child, Elrond. I experienced it every time my own son left home to fight dark wizards, and when they brought him home a shadow of his former self after being caught and tortured by his enemies, and again when my grandson was old enough to pick up his father's wand and fight in his stead. I know that fear more intimately than I've known anything else in my life. It is not my intention to accuse you of being callous or oblivious to my fear - and most definitely not when I see that same fear in your eyes. But Neville is my grandson, my boy. He belongs with me. Not with your Fellowship and not in your war."

"My Lady, he is in this war of his own volition. Whether he remains a child in your eyes or not, he has made his choice. To remove him from this quest - even were I able - may be disastrous. It could result in the downfall of this world which we have fought long and hard to protect. I cannot act against his sincere desire to aid Middle Earth, for one as noble as he would not thank me for it. And you would lose him if you attempted to intercede on his behalf."

The words were spoken softly, but with a ringing sincerity.

_She would lose him if she attempted to intercede._

They resounded in her head as Elrond withdrew his hand and took his seat, leaving her alone in the middle of the company.

Neville would never forgive her. Augusta knew as it as sure as she knew that Saruman was cursing her very existence. If she chased after him and found him, then hauled him back to England before he could complete his noble (if deluded) quest, she would lose her grandson forever.

Taking a shaky breath, she raised her head and faced her host with all the Longbottom pride she could muster (which was a lot).

"Well, then, my good fellow. If that's the way things stand, there's really only one thing left to say..."

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Author's Note_: Bit of a cliffy (I hope). I was going to put an Augusta/Bilbo scene in this chapter (wrote a good bit of it actually), but felt I should end it on this note instead. Depending on what Augusta has to say to Elrond, it may or may not be in her next chapter.

Next time - Neville and co. discover the 'delights' of Rohan...

Kara's Aunty J


	17. A Rohirric Adventure

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. and Lord of the Rings and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

**Credit: **www dot hp-encyclopedia dot com and www dot Tuckborough dot net

**Please review - it really _is_ my only reward.**

**Not Quite A Maia**

**Chapter 17**

* * *

_Third Age: 1st__-2__nd__ March 3019_

_Eastemnet, Rohan_

Neville had never been so glad in his life to fall on his rear.

Really.

If he had thought the few hours' ride towards Fangorn had been uncomfortable, then it was nothing compared to the mad dash across what Aragorn called the Eastemnet, through grasses that reached up to his knees or over hidden pools (which, of course, the ruddy horse dumped him into - twice). The young wizard was damp, sore and chaffed beyond reason before the ranger called a halt for a few hours' rest.

The sun had long since sank into the west as he slithered off Fæleu's back and sagged to his knees. He didn't even object when Gimli grabbed him by the scruff of his elven cloak and literally dragged him across the grass to where Legolas was starting a small, but welcome, fire.

"Oh, really, Gimli dear. You could have just pulled him up and put your arm around his waist to help him over. Look at his lovely cloak! And his trousers!"

Molly waved her wand over Neville's mucky clothing while gifting the dwarf with a scowl of disapproval.

"It was my intent to assist him to the fire, Lady Molly, not beg him for a dance," replied the dwarf in surprise.

Hah! Dance! He'd be lucky if he could so much as stand on his own two feet by his eighteenth birthday, let alone take a waltz in the middle of nowhere with a grumpy dwarf.

"'S'alright Molly. It's not that bad - you've got the worst of it off," he said, attempting to brush the remaining smears of dirt from his front. Not having had the opportunity to cast a Drying charm after the callous beast chucked him into the water (Aragorn had been adamant that they maintain their pace), he had literally had to dry out as he rode, much to Molly's chagrin. Of course, he could have accepted her offer of flying overhead and hitting him with a nice Heating charm, but he didn't want to lose face with the others. The power ranger hadn't so much as flinched when - after the teenager's first fall - he'd sprang lightly off Hasufel's back, waded into the pool to yank him out, then sprang (dripping wet) back on to his (beautifully docile) horse. And Legolas looked like a male model in a _Witch Weekly _wet t-shirt competition when it had been his turn to pull him out of the next pool. As for Gimli, well, the dwarf would rather cuddle a tree than admit he was any less hardy than his other two macho companions.

Aragorn stood sipping on a warm cup of something Molly had offered him a few moments earlier and gazing into the darkness as Neville pulled himself into a sitting position. The teenager gratefully accepted his own cup from the matronly witch.

"There, dear. Get some of that hot soup down you and you'll soon feel a whole lot better. There's no point in making anything more substantial than that though if we've any hope of getting a few hours sleep, but it'll warm you up nicely and take the edge off your hunger."

Smiling his thanks, he sipped on his tomato soup and gazed at the dark-haired man standing a few feet away.

"How much further is it, Aragorn?" he asked.

"With fleet foot and good fortune, we shall be in Edoras not long after sunrise."

Very thankful that he would be able to get a few hours' sleep before they set off again, he rubbed at his aching thighs and sipped his soup. It occurred to him that this might be a good time to get the tents out, having finally the space to set them up, but when he voiced his idea aloud Aragorn simply shook his head and said that with a little luck, they may have the comfort of a real bed at Edoras the next day. Resigned to another night in the open, the teenager found just enough energy to pull out his bedroll from the knapsack and throw himself on it, pausing only long enough to scowl at Fæleu (who was happily munching at the long grasses and therefore ignoring him) before closing his eyes. He fell asleep instantly.

**XXX**

It was still dark when they set off several hours later, and though Legolas had kindly offered to keep watch for the entire time his friends slept, the elf was the only one among them who looked fresh.

It was sickening really.

Neville gave an enormous yawn and nearly choked when Arod - who was directly in front of him carrying the elf and the dwarf - kicked up a small clod of soggy earth which hit him in the back of the throat. Molly whizzed by on her Cleansweep just as he was turning blue and hit him with a quick Anapneo before he had the chance to curl up his toes and die.

Blimey! Maybe Gran had a point about covering the 'enormous void in the middle of his face' - though he'd die before admitting it to her (he ignored the fact that he had almost done just that).

Determined to stay alive until they (at least) reached the capital of Rohan, the teenager kept his mouth firmly shut and clung to his horse's back while wondering if Merry and Pippin were having a better night's rest with the Ents than he'd had. Thinking of Merry and Pippin drew his thoughts to Frodo and Sam. Where were they? Were they safe? Had they managed to elude capture by the remaining Nazgûl? Did they have enough food and water? If only he'd cast an Ever-Full charm on their water-bottles before they'd left! But it couldn't be helped now. He'd just have to trust their resourcefulness to provide them with whatever provisions they needed.

As dawn broke and the air grew more chilly, the peaks of white-tipped mountains rose before them on the horizon. A short while later, Neville was able to discern dark valleys cutting into them as the horses raced across the grassy lands. Suddenly, Arod drew to a halt directly in front of him and he jerked his reins to the side before Fæleu ran up the other horse's back. Legolas lifted himself up in the stirrups and shaded his eyes against the newly risen sun.

"What do your Elf eyes see, Legolas?" shouted Gimli (highly unnecessarily, of course. The elf _was_ right in front of him).

"I see a white stream that comes down from the snows," replied Legolas.

Great. _More_ water. He'd have to remember to keep the stupid horse away from it in case he had the pleasure of yet another cold bath.

"Snowbourn! The White Mountains are nigh!" cried Aragorn.

"Is that good, dear/" asked Molly, hovering beside him.

"Indeed, Lady Molly. For it means we come soon to Meduseld. It lies on a tall hill yonder at the foot of those very mountains."

"So we're nearly there?" asked Neville hopefully.

The ranger turned his head and gave the youth a weary smile. "Yes, young Wizard. Your trials on horseback are almost at an end, for the present. But we must exhibit caution from this moment on. The Rohirrim are a proud and honourable people, but with Saruman's Orcs roaming freely across their lands, they will treat with caution any stranger that seeks audience with the King if they are in company of a Wizard. It would be better if you hid your staff until we are inside the Golden Hall and have won their trust."

"But, wait a minute; we met Éomer and a group of Rohirrim soldiers two days ago - they would have told them that I'm friendly."

"Mayhap, lad," said Gimli gruffly. "But do not forget that Éomer and his Éored were abroad against the King's wishes. Théoden may not be inclined to pay his Marshal much heed."

Well that was just great, wasn't it? Another confrontation. Another my-wand-is-bigger-than-yours contest. _And_ he'd have to prove himself - again. He shoved his wand beneath his shirt for safekeeping.

"And, Lady Molly?"

The witch turned to look at the ranger. "Yes, dear?"

Aragorn smiled at her mode of address. "It would be better if you dismounted your flying broom and took your seat before me. The warriors of Rohan are noble and gallant, but even they would take issue with a woman of such...unusual...taste in transport."

"Oh. Well, if you think it's wise, dear. But I don't want to be a bother to your poor horse - I'm not as thin as I used to be you know."

"You do yourself a disservice my Lady. Hasufel will barely notice your weight. Come." The ranger dismounted and extended his hand to her.

With a sceptical look on her face, Molly landed, packed her Cleansweep in her bag and allowed him to boost her onto Hasufel's back. Aragorn took his seat behind her and advised her to grip the horse's mane while he slid his arms past her waist and grabbed the reins. When they were all ready, the three horses carried their riders down the Westfold to Edoras.

Just over an hour later, the travellers crossed a stream at a well used ford on the lowest banks and followed the wide rutted tracks leading towards the uplands. Edoras loomed before them, with Meduseld sitting tall and proud at the peak. The sun was already beginning to reflect off its thatched roof and the teenager realised why Aragorn had called it the Golden Hall. At the foot of the walled hill were several tall, grassy mounds covered with little white flowers.

"These are the barrows of the dead kings of Rohan. The blooms are called _simbelmynë_, or Evermind in Common Speech. They flower all year round and are found where the dead are buried."

Neville silently counted the numerous barrows. Rohan had a lot of dead kings, that much was certain. But, crikey, their people couldn't think very much of them if they dumped them outside the city wall like that. There wasn't even a guard in sight to protect the graves of such important people. He was about to ask Aragorn why they didn't have a nice plot in a graveyard, when the ranger burst into song.

Oh great. Not again.

What was it with these people and their fondness for a song? First Galadriel after they'd left her on the riverbank back in Lothlórien (probably singing for joy at seeing the back of them - the hobbits had nearly eaten her out of house and home, after all), then Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli - who sang a verse each at Boromir's cairn before the Four Hunters set off on their mammoth cross-country marathon.

He cringed as he remembered that particular song. After his three friends had each sung their verse, they had looked to him for a fourth, but he was the worst singer he knew and didn't have the slightest hope of coming up with something as poignant or elegant as they had - certainly not something fit enough to sing at the grave of his friend. However, the others had stared at him so sombrely and expectantly that he'd had no choice but to 'pull something out of the hat', as Granddad used to say. In the end, squeezing his eyes shut and hoping Boromir would forgive him, he did the best he could with:

_And Boromir the hero, they laid him to rest_

_Near the place that he'd known as a lad,_

_They laid him to rest with his hat inside out_

_And his horn snapped in two, which was sad_

In retrospect, it was probably fair to say that Parth Galen wasn't near Minas Tirith at all (or so Aragorn informed him later). And, unlike Odo the Hero, Boromir hadn't had a hat to speak of. Fortunately, Neville had at least been able to repair the broken horn and now wore it slung over his back. But a sidelong glance at his companions proved how willing they were to listen to his tribute (they had been stunned into silence) and therefore, because everyone else's verse had been twice as long as his, he added:

_Boromir is my King, _

_Boromir is my King, _

_He didn't let the One Ring win, _

_Boromir is my King …_

.

_Boromir can save anything, _

_He'd never pinch a stinking Ring, _

_That's why this Gryffindor sings: _

_Boromir is my King!_

Not very elegant at all, really. In fact, Aragorn had been apoplectic with shock, but the teenager hadn't known if that was because he'd called _Boromir_ a king (instead of the ranger himself) or because he'd managed to sing a rather jolly song about the son of the Steward resisting temptation a mere hour after the man's death. Still, he thought his Gondorian friend would have liked the eccentric tribute. Boromir had not been completely without a sense of humour and his noble friend would probably have slapped him heartily on the back and rolled his eyes at the teenager's gauche attempt to honour him.

Then, of course, there was that ruddy tune about Gondor that Aragorn would belt out (especially if they were near any mountains that looked South). Which was nice, Neville supposed, except that the last time the ranger let rip with it, he had been trying to get to sleep.

And now this rather depressing song about a bygone age as they walked amidst the graves of kings. It was not exactly heartening.

Resigned to the fact that he would have to grin and bear it, Neville followed his friends as they passed the silent mounds and rode up the slopes of a large hill until they finally arrived at a large gate in the great wall encircling its perimeter. By this time, the ranger had finished his musical tribute, but now a new threat loomed on the horizon in the form of armoured men guarding the entrance to the town. They challenged the weary travellers in their own language, and Neville saw Molly frown in confusion, but to his surprise, Aragorn was able to speak with them in their native tongue.

It wasn't enough to stop the suspicious guards pointing first at the horses, then Molly. What, had they never seen a woman before? One of the Rohirrim hovered at the witch's leg and stuck a finger dangerously close to her thick woolly tights and knee-length skirt (which made Gimli growl in warning) but Molly slapped it away and gave him the sort of heated reprimand which was clear in _any_ language. There was a rapid exchange of words as the ranger argued with the guards, then a messenger left through a smaller opening in the gate and disappeared from sight. They waited almost twenty minutes before he returned then finally - reluctantly - the guards stepped aside. The large gate was unlocked and drawn back and the travellers followed one of the Rohirrim through it as he led them up the hill on his own mount.

The hill was dotted all over with wooden structures that Neville assumed to be homes and the wide stone path led them passed the dwellings. The whole town had an atmosphere of gloom and depression, reinforced by the empty streets and wary guards back at the gate. A few suspicious heads peered at them behind coarse, yet colourful curtains. But he wasn't interested in hidden spectators. Overtaking Legolas and Gimli, he drew his horse next to Aragorn and Molly.

"What happened? What did the guards say?"

"We are fortunate that I am familiar with the language of the land and was able to convince them of our good intentions, young Wizard, or we would not have won entry to their City," replied the ranger, looking grim. "It appears the Théoden King will allow no other than his own folk or allies from Gondor to pass his gates."

Well, that made sense really. Any self-respecting leader wouldn't exactly open their door to a band of orcs and tell them to make themselves at home.

"And did Éomer tell them about us? That we're friends?"

Legolas and Gimli were listening intently to their conversation, trying to glean what information they could.

Aragorn's forehead gathered into a quick frown. "He did, or so it would seem. But it does not appear that we may count on that recommendation for a friendly welcome. Our guide was not forthcoming on his fate, but I suspect he is not in favour with his uncle at present."

"The king is his uncle?" asked Molly, turning slightly in her seat. "Well, surely that would make him more apt to listen to him?"

"I know not, Lady Molly. All I can say for certain is that much has changed in Edoras since last I enjoyed its hospitality. No longer are these people as welcoming as once they were: their king is ailing almost as fast as the Shadow grows and his son and heir lies dead at the hand of Saruman's agents, or so our guide has told me. And soon we may encounter this 'craven counsel' which Éomer claims to whisper in Théoden's ear, the same counsel which would have turned us away at the gate. We must exercise caution until we have the lay of the Court. Neville?"

The teenager raised his brows in question.

"It is known that you are a Wizard. You may meet with hostility when we enter, for Gandalf was little loved by Théoden, and those who are aware of Saruman's treachery will not trust those of your kind after losing their Prince to his plotting."

"What do you mean: 'those who are aware'? Isn't the king aware?"

The dark-haired man shook his head as they passed a sparkling fountain and neared the green terrace which housed the long court of Edoras. "It appears he is not as willing to believe in the Wizard's betrayal as others - due in no small part to the machinations of his counsel, no doubt. Grima Wormtongue's influence over his liege is uncommonly absolute. We must be wary of him."

Wormtongue? The king had an advisor called _Wormtongue_? How the ruddy hell could he take someone with a name like that seriously? If Aragorn's words about the shady bloke hadn't already unnerved Neville, then that name alone would have put him on his guard.

"Fortunately," continued Aragorn, "Lady Molly is not known to the Court, nor would they suspect a woman of power equal to a Wizard -"

"Chauvinists," snapped Molly, still peeved that the guards at the gate had (apparently) attempted to cop a feel of her leg. Neville grinned.

"- and her innocent countenance will be to our advantage if matters become heated enough to warrant her intervention."

"What exactly did you tell them about her down at the gates?" Neville asked, curious to know how his friend had explained Molly's strange attire to the locals.

The ranger allowed a smile to grace his lips. "I told them that she is Gimli's sister."

The dwarf almost choked. "_Sister_? Aragorn, the Lady looks naught like me - nor any Dwarven female. She is much too delicate and hairless for that, as any one who has ever seen a Dwarven female would know."

"Ah, but no Man or Elf has ever seen a Dwarven female, least of all the Rohirrim. Who are they to gainsay my claim? The Lady Molly is markedly shorter in stature than all of us, except you. And her hair is a similar shade to yours, and abundant enough to afford more than a passing resemblance."

Neville was gobsmacked (to say nothing of Molly, who had flushed to the roots of her hair at the thought of being hirsute enough to pass for a dwarf). "Bloody hell, Aragorn, I had no idea you could be so sneaky."

Legolas laughed. "That is because you do not know him as well as I, my young friend. But our wily ranger has the right of it. It could seem to an untrained eye that the Lady Molly and my bushy Dwarven friend here are kin, though it would appear that she alone has inherited the beauty in the family, for her craggy brother is not as pleasing to the eye."

Gimli glared viciously at the elf's back while his 'sister' laughed nervously. But before the affronted dwarf could reply, the small party reached a set of stone steps leading up to a wide paved terrace. Their guide called a halt and spoke with Aragorn, pointing to the top of the steps before turning around and riding back down the way they had come. Two watchmen stood silently by stone-carved seats, gazing down at them expectantly.

"We must make our own way from here, my friends," said Aragorn, swiftly dismounting and helping Molly down from Hasufel's back. The others followed suit, leaving their horses to the care of a wary stable-hand who had seen their approach up the long path.

Unluckily for Neville, his legs were still shaky from all the hard riding he'd done and it was almost impossible for him to negate the steep steps leading up to the door of the large court without assistance from Legolas.

Why hadn't he thought to put a Cushioning Charm on the stupid animal's flanks too? Now his thighs were chaffed and sore and he could barely put one foot in front of the other.

In fact, as he climbed the steps, it became apparent that he couldn't even do that. The friction it caused on his raw skin was too much to bear, so he sort of waddled up the steps, gripping on to the elf's arm like a drunk gripping on to the bar at the local pub.

Which was typical, really. After all, why should he want to impress the natives with friendly overtures and powerful magic, when he could awe them with his ability to simply stand on his own two feet?

Brilliant.

He was relieved when they reached the final step which opened on to a paved area before the doors. But just as he pulled himself up it, his unruly foot caught its edge and he tripped, flying across the landing and falling on his stomach at the foot of one of the enormous blond men.

"Oof!"

"Neville! Oh, for goodness' sake. You really should watch where you're going."

"It wasn't me, it was my foot," he squeaked to his Guardian in mortification as Aragorn and Legolas yanked him unceremoniously off the ground.

"Let us hope your foot recovers its sense of direction long enough to get us into the Golden Hall," remarked the ranger dryly.

Git. Just because _he_ was an expert horseman and tracker extraordinaire, didn't mean they all were. But blimey! This new guard was a scary bloke. And enormous - at least as tall as Aragorn and Legolas. What did they feed people here?

The guard spared him a fleeting glance before addressing them in the Common Speech.

"Hail, comers from afar! I am the Doorwarden of Théoden. Háma is my name. Here I must bid you lay aside your weapons before you enter."

Legolas was the first to comply, handing over his knife, quiver and bow. Háma handled them with reverence when he heard they were gifts from Galadriel. But Aragorn was reluctant to part with his weapon.

"It is not my will to put aside my sword or to deliver Andúril to the hand of any other Man."

Neville didn't blame him. And if Isildur's heir wasn't parting with his sword, then he wouldn't be parting with his own goblin-made one either.

"It is the will of Théoden," said Háma.

Ha! He dared the king to come out and try to wrestle it from the imposing ranger's grip. There was no way Aragorn would part with the-sword-that-used-to-be-broken.

"It is not clear to me that the will of Théoden son of Thengel, even though he be Lord of the Mark, should prevail over the will of Aragorn son of Arathorn, Elendil's heir of Gondor."

Blimey! Aragorn wasn't pulling any punches, was he? He'd just told the grim Doorwarden that his boss didn't measure up to his own Númenorean legacy - and right outside the front door of the king's house, too! Come to think of it, that might not go down too well...

"This is the house of Théoden, not Aragorn, even were he King of Gondor in the seat of Denethor," Háma replied, looking less than pleased as he stepped before the doors to the hall and barred their entry. The Doorwarden's sword was now in his hand and he pointed it towards them.

Molly intervened, taking a step towards the Rohirrim and crossing her arms in disapproval. "Now really, dear. There's no need to be like that. It's a family heirloom, for Merlin's sake. It's not really surprising that he's reluctant to give it up. And you -"

She jabbed a finger at the ranger. "- it's not very nice to go strutting about as if you're king of the world. You're a guest in _his_ country now. How would you like it if I came to visit your home and said that I was better than you? Hmm?"

Aragorn coloured slightly and Molly gave a nod of satisfaction. "That's what I thought. Now, play nicely boys. We're all friends here."

Slowly, Aragorn unbuckled his belt and laid his sword against the wall. "Here I set it, but I command you not to touch it, nor to permit any other to lay a hand on it. In this Elvish sheath dwells the Blade that was Broken and has been made again. Telchar first wrought it in the deeps of time. Death shall come to any Man that draws Elendil's sword save Elendil's heir."

Háma stepped back and looked at Aragorn with amazement. "It seems that you are come on the wings of song out of the forgotten days. It shall be, Lord, as you command."

"Well, if it has Andúril to keep it company, my axe may lay here, too, without shame," said Gimli gruffly. "Now then, if all is as you wish, let us go and speak with your master."

But Háma's eyes skipped over Molly, deeming her no threat, and came to rest on the Sword of Gryffindor, still hanging from Neville's waist by the red and yellow tie he'd used to secure it at Parth Galen. "There is one sword yet that must be surrendered. That of the Wizard."

Neville tensed. What? Walk in to a room full of hostile half-giants without his sword? And how did Háma know he was a wizard?

He remembered the guard at the gate speaking of Éomer. Of course - the King's nephew would have told Théoden that Isildur's heir travelled with one. Still, it didn't mean he was as ready to give up the iconic sword as quickly as the others had given up theirs. Professor McGonagall would flay him alive if he lost it.

Ignoring Molly's frown, he said: "You're joking, aren't you?"

"I do not jest on such matters. You are about to enter the Court of the king. If you come in friendship, it will be of no matter for you to leave your weapon in my care, for you will have no need of it. Will you not honour your host with this sign of respect? Or do you perhaps harbour ill intent after all - as is the manner of Wizards of late?"

Offended by the slur on his character, Neville glowered at the poncy git in his knee length mail shirt and shiny helmet. He was about to make a scathing retort about leaving them to fight their own battles when he remembered that the prince of the land had recently lost his life at the hands of a dark wizard's soldiers. Perhaps it was no wonder that the bloke was a bit touchy?

"Erm, right. Fine. Here you go," he said, loosening the Sword of Gryffindor and offering it to the Doorwarden cautiously by the handle. "But be careful with it. If you touch the blade with your bare hands and nick your finger, it'll kill you. It is a wizard's sword, after all."

Surprised that the teenager had acquiesced so willingly, Aragorn nodded at him to show his approval. He wasn't the only one to be impressed.

"I thank you for the warning, young Wizard. Perhaps not all of your kind are as callous as some."

Neville bit his lip at the double-edged compliment. At least the bloke was trying to be decent. But then Háma went and ruined it all.

"And your staff, Wizard."

No! Absolutely no way was he giving up his wand! But then again ... maybe he didn't have to. After all, the bloke had asked for his _staff_ and Neville didn't have one. Technically. Anyway, Háma didn't know him well enough to know if he was lying or not.

Not that he _would_ lie, of course. He was rubbish at it (as Gran consistently reminded him). All he would do was pick out elements of truth and marry them up.

With that in mind, he squared his shoulders and gave the most convincing rueful sigh he could.

"I don't have a staff."

Háma's brows shot up his forehead in disbelief. "No staff? Would you have me believe you are a Wizard, yet bear no staff?"

"Well, do you see one on me? We got into a fight with Saruman at Fangorn forest the other night, and I sort of dropped my magic stick and couldn't find it."

Which was true. Sort of. He had said 'magic stick', not 'staff' or 'wand' so he couldn't be accused of lying. And Háma needn't know that he'd found it again. So far, so good.

"_You_ fought the White Wizard?"

"Yeah."

Which was not entirely true. He'd put out the odd fire Saruman had shot at them, but Molly had done most of the real fighting because he'd been too busy trying not to crash face-first into a ruddy big tree.

Háma was still doubtful. "And he took the staff from your hand to punish you for your boldness?"

Er, well, no actually. Neville squirmed. Háma was looking at him with a deal more perception than he'd credited the man for and he couldn't answer the question without an outright lie and being caught in it. But there was no other choice. He felt rotten for leading him on like this, but what else could he do? He was not parting with his wand, end of.

However, fate intervened in the guise of his Guardian.

"Oh, you should have seen him, Háma dear! He rescued me from the horrible wizard's orcs, then cursed the man himself with a nice pair of antlers, amongst other things. But unfortunately, Saruman did manage to pinch his staff. Still, we should be grateful that Neville got in a last curse before that happened - the stupid man was too busy scratching his particulars to bother about finishing us off."

Every last pair of eyes had settled on Molly as she reeled off the outrageous half-truth. She looked so pleased and proud (probably with herself) as she grinned at the teenager that Háma began to soften.

"So he bravely championed your rescue at the cost of his own staff?"

"Oh, absolutely. I mean, he had to really, didn't he? After all, it's not as if my own flesh and blood could get anywhere near the wizard." She shot the shocked dwarf the same look of fond exasperation she normally reserved for Ron whenever he moaned about getting yet another hand-me-down Hogwarts' robe from one of his elder brothers. "Gimli was too busy being flattened by Legolas. And Aragorn was stumbling about like he'd swallowed a barrel of beer after the spell Saruman set off. Did I mention that Neville turned the wizard green? Oh yes, literally. He's not the _White_ Wizard any more, that's for certain!"

Gimli was puce with embarrassment that Háma might think him too delicate to fend off a slip of an elf, and Aragorn rubbed his forehead in vexation after being likened to a hardened alcoholic. Only Legolas and Neville were able to admire her tactical diversion as she stood smiling at the Doorwarden and looking very much like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth.

"The Dwarf is your kin? The messenger did not tell us this before he spoke with the King," gasped Háma, swapping a look of astonishment with his fellow guard.

"Yes. My brother. Older of course, but you can probably tell that just by looking at him. I have warned him about the effects of too much exposure to the sun, but he just won't listen. Typical male really. He won't even smear his face with a little moisturiser to fight off the worst of those wrinkles -"

Gimli balked and clutched his cheeks (eliciting a snigger from Legolas).

"- not even for the sake of his poor, dear sister. Which is not very nice of him, is it? But you look like a nice big brother. I'll bet on my father's best walking axe that you would do it if your sister asked you. Well, you probably do - I mean just look at that baby soft skin of yours!"

Háma, who was becoming increasingly bemused by the turn of the conversation (and unwilling to admit whether or not he slapped cold cream on his face every morning) attempted to regain some sort of control.

"Forgive me my wonder, but I have never seen a Dwarven lady before. I had no idea they were so..."

He struggled for words and both Gimli and Molly glared at him (Gimli because he was waiting to cut him down if he said anything unfavourable about Dwarven women, and Molly because she was waiting to hex him if he said 'hairy').

"...so tall," finished Háma, much to the collective relief of everyone. "Is it the norm for Dwarven males to be shorter than the females?"

Mortified at the sudden attention his stature was gaining (and livid that Molly had brought the subject up in the first place - not that he would tell her that in case she hexed him), the dwarf pulled himself up to his full, (almost) five feet of height and glowered at the Doorwarden. "Dwarves do not divulge such personal matters to strangers, Master Háma. And it is hardly a topic to be discussing when your king awaits us. Now, if you are satisfied that all is well, we would be glad of entry to the hall, for our journey has been long and arduous and my _sister_ feels the cold easily. 'Tis her unnatural lack of hair, you know. You would not keep a lady waiting outside much longer in these bitter winds, would you?"

Háma finally conceded to Neville's staff-less presence (looking very sorry that he had challenged the boy in the first place) and he and his fellow guard finally lifted the heavy bars on the doors and swung them inward, allowing the visitors to pass through.

With a beaming smile of thanks, Molly stepped up to Neville and followed him through behind the others.

"Thanks, Molly," Neville whispered, grateful that he hadn't been subjected to a strip-search for his 'staff' by Háma or his equally fierce-looking friend.

"My pleasure, dear. I couldn't very well let them take your wand away, now could I? Anyway, once I got over the shock of Aragorn's little fib to the guards at the gate, I found the idea of having a 'brother' again very nice."

"And I would say the idea pleased me too, if you had not accused me of being as aged as my own father," muttered Gimli from directly in front of her.

"What, you mean that little comment about the wrinkles? Well of course I don't think you have wrinkles, Gimli dear. How could anyone tell anyway - there's far too much hair on your face. Have you considered a decent shave? I know a very good spell that would trim the worst of that off, you know."

Gimli actually glanced back at her in disbelief, but was unable to reply because Aragorn hushed them with a wave of his hand, leaving them to walk the rest of the way in silence. It gave Neville the opportunity to look at his surroundings. After his eyes had accustomed to the dim light, he could see the hall was large - almost the same size of the great hall in Hogwarts. Woven cloths lined the walls, mostly depicting white horses on a green background, except one really big one, where a young man sat on a horse, his long yellow hair flying behind him in the wind. The horse's head was lifted and its nostrils were wide and red as it neighed, giving it (in Neville's opinion) a very eerie look.

Probably related to the nag he'd been lumbered with by Éomer, now that he thought about it.

They passed a long hearth in the middle of the hall, and he was beginning to think there was no one in the room when he saw the raised dais at the end. On top of it was a heavy, carved throne upon which sat possibly the oldest person he'd ever seen in his life. It was a man, bent with age and wearing a thin gold crown over long white braided hair. In the centre of the crown directly over his forehead was a large diamond which shot little beams of colour about his head as it caught the dim light of the hall. A few feet behind him was a woman in a long white dress, but the teenager couldn't see her face properly. On the steps leading up to the dais sat a thin, pale man with heavy-lidded eyes who regarded them warily.

That must be Wormtongue. Blimey, he was a right dodgy looking bloke. No wonder Éomer was suspicious of him.

They came to a halt several feet away from the dais and Aragorn spoke.

"Hail, Théoden son of Thengel. I am Aragorn son of Arathorn. I come to offer you counsel in this your darkest hour."

Théoden rose (slowly) and leaned on a short black staff. He spoke in a quivery voice that was heavy with age. "I greet you, son of Arathorn, though I admit to surprise at your presence. I would have thought the line of Isildur to be long gone, had not my sister-son told me of your existence yester-eve. But tell me, is it true that Gandalf is fallen?"

"I grieve to say that it is."

"Grieve? Each to their own, I suppose. But I for one do not grieve, for of late his visits to my hall brought naught but ill news. The kingdom of Rohan has suffered much since last he graced us with his 'wisdom', not the least of which is the death of my heir."

Neville was confused. How was that Gandalf's fault? Was the old man a bit mental?

Aragorn seemed to agree. "It was not by the work of Gandalf that Théodred perished. But I think you know this, Lord."

The King seemed to sag a little, before he rallied. "Perhaps. But what of this counsel that you come to offer? In case it has escaped your attention, my own trusty advisor sits by my feet. What counsel can you offer me that he cannot - lest it be to tell me the whereabouts of Shadowfax, for the Lord of the Mearas has deserted his home not eight days since."

Who the ruddy heck was Shadowfax? And why did he have a name that sounded like one of Arthur Weasley's dodgy Muggle machines (which Mr Weasley had insisted on showing him and Gran during a visit the summer after his adventures in the Department of Mysteries)?

"I come to counsel you on matters of war, not the missing chief of the Mearas, though I mourn his loss for your sake, Lord."

"You seem to forget I have counsel already. Why should I trust yours over his? Especially given that you consort with a foreign Istar, one who is unknown to even the wisest of my minstrels."

The old man turned his watery blue eyes toward Neville. "Do you deny that you are a stranger to these lands?"

The young wizard shook his head, until Legolas nudged him and whispered that he vocalise his answer.

Oh, right. How embarrassing.

"Er, no. It's a fair enough comment, sir."

"And from whence do you hail?"

Deciding it best to be economical with the truth (in case the King accused him of being completely barking and had him flung him in some sort of medieval loony bin) he said: "Valinor, sir."

There was a slight shaking of the king's shoulders. He was laughing at him! The old man was laughing at him!

"Do you expect me to treat that answer in good faith?"

Neville gritted his teeth and refrained from answering that he 'expected' the king to keel over dead in the next five minutes, given his advanced years. He really _did_ want to help these people, because Éomer and his men had seemed quite decent (despite the fact they'd lumbered him with a ghastly nag of a horse) and if they could get rid of Saruman, then they'd only have to worry about Sauron.

And whether or not Frodo and Sam could avoid _his_ grasp.

"It's the truth, sir. I can only tell you the truth. I can't control how you treat it."

"A good answer. It is not beyond the bounds of reason that you would be sent to aid where others have failed. Yet, let us set it aside for the moment and address another issue. You are of uncommon youth for a Maia. Surely if the Valar themselves sent you here, they would have given you the guise of an old Man? One who would engender trust instead of scepticism?"

Well, he wasn't _quite_ a Maia. Time to be economical again ...

"I chose this guise myself -"

Which was not true. If he'd had any say in what he looked like, he would have gone for a dashing Oliver Wood-esque sort of figure.

"- you know, all the better to move around. Wouldn't want to be constricted in the body of an old man in a time like this after all. Can you imagine me not being able to cast spells at the enemy because my fingers were crippled with arthritis? Or run to help a friend because my gout was killing me?"

Aragorn groaned, and it was only then that Neville realised the King's fingers were crippled with arthritis ...

Oh dear.

Hoping to correct his gaffe, he soldiered on. "Not that there's anything wrong with arthritis if you've lived long enough to earn it. And if you've got problems with gout too, I'm sure there's something in Molly's first-aid kit than can help ..."

He was cut off when the ranger clamped a hand over his mouth. Probably a good thing, really. Théoden was not thrilled at being called crippled, however indirectly.

"Perhaps a greater age would have suited you better, child, for your youthful impertinence will garner few allies. And you are to be the successor to Gandalf Stormcrow? Well, so be it. You are well suited to follow in the steps of such a harbinger of ill tidings, as he ever was. Now I have the measure of you, I know to bid you leave my hall, for if the heir of Isildur takes guidance from one such as you, calamity cannot fail to follow in its wake. I want no more dealings with the guidance of foolhardy Wizards, or the counsel of Aragorn son of Arathorn - which he no doubt has from you."

As mortified as the teenager was at possibly compromising Aragorn's good reputation with the King, he was unwilling to allow the slur on the Grey Wizard to pass when Gandalf had sacrificed his life to fight for the freedom of men like the one that stood in front of him.

"Look," he began in a firmer voice after pushing away the ranger's hand (which stank of horse), "I'm sorry if I offended you, sir. I didn't mean to. But that's no reason to take it out on Aragorn and definitely no reason to speak ill of the dead. You may not have liked Gandalf, but the news he brought you - whether you liked it or not - he brought only with the intention to help. That was all he ever wanted to do. Your problems wouldn't have just disappeared if he hadn't come to visit at all. They'd have gotten worse because you had no warning."

"They _are_ worse! My kingdom is beset with enemies and my son is dead!"

"And is that because you _took_ Gandalf's advice or _ignored_ it?"

The question rang through the hall and Théoden staggered back in shock. Neville felt rotten for being so blunt, but as the King sagged into his chair, he knew what the answer was. The old man had dismissed Gandalf's counsel.

A delicate hand rested upon Théoden's shoulder and the woman behind the throne bent over to whisper into his ear. He couldn't hear what she was saying, but when she straightened herself she moved closer to the old man, keeping her hand on his shoulder comfortingly and gazing straight at the young wizard. Her new position allowed him a better view of her face.

Bloody hell! It was the girl of his dreams! Well, maybe not dreams, but _vision_ at least. She was the very one he saw fighting the man in black when he'd looked into Galadriel's mirror!

And what a corker she was too! All ivory skin and big grey eyes, wavy blonde hair down to her waist.

Mind you, she didn't look too thrilled to see him (which was a shame. If he'd known _she_ was going to be there, he'd have washed his face and combed his hair, Possibly rode Fæleu naked to the Snowbourn in the hope the stupid animal would chuck him in. He'd have relished even a cold bath if it made himself presentable for the beauty on the dais).

It was just his luck to make a bad impression on every girl that grabbed his fancy. Despondent at the realisation that he'd probably killed her passion for him before it was even born, he dragged his eyes back to Théoden, who had straightened himself somewhat in his chair.

"I will not validate your question by answering it, young Wizard. But I do respect your defence of your friends, however unwise your words are."

The pale man in black, who had been observing the strangers silently, grimaced slightly and turned to look at the king. But his master ignored him for the moment.

"And while we still speak of unwise words, you have not denied that Isildur's heir's counsel, whatever it be, comes directly from your own lips. Why should I heed it at all when you are an unknown element who has, in only a few short minutes, burdened me anew with the reminder of my loss?"

Aragorn took a step forward and addressed the king. "The counsel I would offer you, Lord, comes not from the lips of a Wizard, but from the Lady Molly, who was for a short time a prisoner of the agents of Saruman before her liberation. She herself has heard directly of Saruman's plans to attack your lands with an army of great strength."

At that, the skinny man in black rose from his seat on the steps and began to pace idly back and forth.

"My Lord King spoke justly in refusing the counsel of one who claims to be Elendil's heir and his strange companions," he said in a calculating voice. "But now, when his decision has been laid bare before you and you realise that your ally's guidance will be righteously dismissed, you would regroup and offer instead the word of a homely Dwarven female as your authority? I am sure the lady is an expert in the domain of hearth and home - that is plain for _all_ to see - but you would have my Lord believe that this common wife was of such interest to these alleged agents of our good friend Saruman that they held her hostage long enough for her to gather supposedly valuable intelligence and flee with it? You sport with the patience of the King!"

Why that oily, greasy, smarmy git! If Neville disliked the man before, he absolutely loathed him now.

A feeling shared by all his friends, apparently. Gimli and Legolas moved to flank Molly on each side (shoving him out of the way) and glowered hatefully at the smirking weasel on the dais.

But Molly, as grateful as she no doubt was for the allegiance of her friends, was more than capable of taking care of herself. She stepped forward so that she stood in full view of Théoden and grasped each side of her skirt, spreading it wide as she curtseyed (something she'd been practising ever since Aragorn had told her they were going to visit a 'King of Men').

"Hello, your Majesty. My name is Molly Weasley and it's very nice to meet you. Hello dear - yes, you at the back. What a pretty girl you are, though you might try smiling on occasion -"

The blonde beauty's mouth dropped in surprise.

"- and you, Grimworm, or whatever your name is, I suppose it's only polite to say hello to you too, not that you deserve it for being so rude."

Grimworm? Oh that was great! Neville and Aragorn snorted in unison.

"Anyway, I may only be a - what did you call me: a common wife? - yes, a _common wife_, but that doesn't mean I don't know a bad sort when I see one. Or when I _hear_ one. I was captured by Saruman's orcs when I was...out walking. I have absolutely no idea why I was of such interest to them, or why they didn't kill me straight away, but I'm very lucky that they didn't. In fact, _you're_ very lucky that they didn't, and any advisor worth his salt would at least hear what I have to say before dismissing me as an insignificance."

Neville grinned at her. She had just announced to the court that she thought the greasy git was a bad sort and a poor advisor. What a woman! And 'Grimworm' was _really_ peeved. He probably hadn't expected the 'homely dwarven female' to give as good as she got.

Indeed he hadn't, which was why Wormtongue had stopped his lazy pacing and faced the witch, scrutinising her more carefully with his cold dark eyes.

"It seems the Wizard child has placed this poor creature under an ill spell of sorts, Lord, for she not only believes what she is saying, but would have you doubt the word of your own counsellor. Do you not agree, sire?"

He turned his dark head to the king, who nodded tiredly.

Which was odd, actually. Théoden had been happy to voice his opinions mere moments ago. Granted, he was probably older than Bathilda Bagshot (even if she was dead), but still ...

Before Molly, or anyone else, could reply to Wormtongue's accusation, the odious man spoke again.

"And any who come before this Court offering counsel, but use Wizardry in an attempt at subterfuge - who would go so far as to utilise their magicks to have you believe Rohan's mighty ally Saruman was working against us - is, in fact, a greater enemy of ours than any they would thrust upon you."

Again, the king agreed, muttering: "A greater enemy than any they would thrust upon me."

The teenager narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Théoden had practically parroted the last words Wormtongue had used.

"Therefore, my liege, it would seem only reasonable to dispose of such an enemy in the same manner as we would any other, would it not?"

Wormtongue's face broke into a grin of triumph as Théoden once more 'agreed'. He raised a scrawny arm and cried: "Guards!"

From out of nowhere, several (huge, of course) guards descended on the visitors, making a grab for Gimli and Aragorn who were at the edge of their line. But none of the Four Hunters (or one very angry witch) had any intention of making it easy for them. The smile slipped off Wormtongue's face as the would-be captives each held their own against a dozen determined Rohirrim.

One of the soldiers, believing Molly to be the easiest target, crept up behind her before she could draw her wand and grabbed her by the shoulder, but the Weasley mother was not likely to be captured that way a second time. Whirling around, she pulled the surprised man towards her and lifted her knee sharply in the timeless feminine defence against male aggression.

Neville would have almost crossed his legs in sympathy for the poor bloke if he hadn't been occupied with fending off his own would-be captor. Dodging around Legolas (who was nimbly eluding capture with graceful twists and twirls), speeding by Gimli (who had managed to fell one of the guards and was using a foot to anchor him to the ground while taking swings at another with his heavy fists) and almost crashing into Aragorn (who kept yelling: "Do not kill the guards! Incapacitation will suffice!"), he finally managed to reach an area wide enough to stick his hand in his shirt and pull out his wand.

"_Stupefy! Stupefy! Stupefy!_"

Three of the guards toppled to the floor, unconscious.

"_No! _Did I not counsel you, Lord, to forbid his staff? That fool, Háma has betrayed us! The Wizard _has_ his staff! The ... the _homely wife _has a staff? GUARDS! MORE GUARDS IMMEDIATELY!"

Wormtongue was livid at the scene unfolding before him and his furious calls for back up were answered instantly. Over a dozen more men came rushing into the hall wielding long swords.

"The Wizard! Get the Wizard - and the Sorceress!" screamed the counsellor.

Aragorn, spotting at least three heading for Molly, grabbed his opponent by the arm and swung him round with such force that the man went sprawling across the floor and crashed into two of his brothers-in-arms, leaving Molly to deal with the final one, who stood frozen less than two seconds later.

"Thank you dear. It wasn't necessary, but it was very chivalrous," she called out sweetly, before turning towards the dais with an expression that would sour milk and yelling at the top of her lungs.

"_You hear that, Grimworm? CHIVALROUS! That's a lesson I'll be teaching you when I get my hands on your sorry excuse for a neck! Better start running!_"

"Hah, Lady Molly! You are a credit to Dwarven women everywhere, I tell you!" barked Gimli in approval as he dodged a left uppercut (which the guard had to crouch to almost floor-level to deliver) and thumped the offending man on the helmet with his balled fists.

A wave of soldiers sped towards Neville from the right wall, trying to encircle him and give him more than one target to concentrate on. However, the teenager's attention was caught by something on the wall.

Excellent! Just what he needed ...

"_Waddiwasi!_"

The enormous tapestry showing the golden-haired rider on his (eerie) horse flew from the wall and dropped onto the soldiers, completely covering them. Confused, they fought to battle out from under it, giving him plenty of time to Petrify them one at a time before turning his attention to the rest of the hall.

Or, to be more precise, to the dais. Wormtongue, sensing his forces to be on the losing side, was actually trying to slip out the hall using an exit behind the throne. And he was dragging Dream Girl behind him by the sleeve of her dress! The git!

Furious, Neville gripped his wand and twisted on the spot, imagining himself speeding towards the back of the throne and arriving to knock the stuffing out of the greasy animal. With a loud _Crack! _he Disapparated from the side of the hearth and Apparated with another one.

Unfortunately, he still had to work on his aim.

He landed, not on the dais, but on the step, twisting his ankle and stumbling when his (still traitorous) foot slipped off the edge, and the cherry and unicorn hair wand flew from his grasp to land at Wormtongue's feet.

Horrified, he tried to make a grab for it, but the smirking man swiped it neatly off the floor and gave him a mocking bow before straightening up ...

... only to collapse in agony when a dainty fist crashed into his nose.

"No longer will you poison my Uncle or lay a covetous eye on me. You are defeated, Grima son of Gálmód. Bested by a boy and a woman."

Two woman, actually. And one of them was his Dream Girl (which, he thought, if not exactly accurate, had a much nicer ring to it than 'vision girl').

The beauteous lady grabbed his wand out of Grima's slackened grip and watched the teenager scramble to his feet. He winced as he rested his damaged foot on the floor, but held his hand out gratefully to receive his wand - only to see her shake her head in refusal.

"Why should I return your staff, Wizard-boy, when you have attacked my fellow countrymen?"

What? She was joking, surely?

"In case it escaped your notice, they attacked us first, on the orders of the very same foul git you just punched - he's trying to crawl off by the way."

She whirled around to see the sneaky man scrabbling away on all fours. With a well-aimed (and very unladylike) kick of her pointy cream shoe directed right between his legs, Wormtongue collapsed in exquisite agony, fully incapable of doing much more than squeaking in pain.

The not-so-great-escape attempt of Grima distracted her long enough for Neville to make a lunge for his wand. Caught off guard, his new opponent brought her fist around to take a swipe at his face, but she wasn't quick enough to prevent him yanking the wand from her hand and pointing it at her. His breath came in gasps, his left ankle was killing him and sweat poured off his face after all his exertions. But her stormy grey eyes, widened in defiance despite the fact that he had her at a disadvantage, made him smile.

Their tussle on the dais had not gone unnoticed. In all the excitement of the last minute, he had missed the great yell of surprise from a stunned Rohirrim soldier after he Disapparated in front of him. The crack of his Apparition on the dais had caught the attention of more of the locals and, slowly, they began to cease fighting. Two or three had made a dash to surround the king (who sat in total bewilderment on his throne), but they made no move to attack Neville after they saw him liberating their Lady. Only when the teenager freed his wand and pointed it at her, did they dare to move towards him.

"Don't even think about it!" snapped Molly, shoving her way passed two burly soldiers and training her wand on them. "Or do you think he's actually going to harm a _woman_?"

Dream Girl's eyes widened in question as he stared at her. "Well? Are you going to harm a woman?" she asked in a voice of gentile authority.

Neville flushed. "Don't be daft. I won't hurt you - well, as long as you promise to keep that shoe away from me, that is." He indicated her feet with a nod of his head.

"I believe it is within my power to give you that assurance."

Couldn't she just have said 'all right then'? Still ...

"Great. Excellent. That's really good to hear."

Cor, she was stunning.

"You are still aiming your staff at me," she hissed, not impressed in the slightest.

Oh, crikey, so he was!

"Sorry!" he mumbled, dropping his hand and flushing beet red. Why was he so stupid when it came to girls?

"So, Wizard. Is it your intention to addle my Lord's brains with your magicks, now that we are rid of Grima's sorcery?"

Her frosty accusation was like a bucket of cold water in his face. Annoyed, he scowled at her. "You're confusing me with Saruman. I've never used my 'magicks' to addle anyone's brains."

"As I am not familiar with you, I have only your word for that. The word of a stranger who has held me at the point of his weapon."

"A weapon you tried to deprive me of. And for your information, it's not very clever to go around grabbing wands - staffs - when you don't know what you're doing with them."

"Something I shall keep in mind if we ever find ourselves in a similar situation. But I would still know the answer to my question: what are your intentions?"

"To offer our help, for crying out loud," he snapped in exasperation.

Actually, now that he thought about it, exasperation was becoming more and more familiar to him the longer he spent in Middle Earth.

"We've been trying to tell you for the past half hour that Saruman has amassed an army of orcs. And he's probably marching them towards Rohan this very minute. We came to warn your king, but he seems a bit ... off colour ... and not very receptive to assistance."

Finally, the woman broke her unnerving glare. She sighed deeply and shook her head in sorrow. "My uncle has aged greatly in the last five years. He listens to none that do not agree with his craven counsellor."

"You said you thought him poisoned by Wormtongue, my Lady?"

Neville and his companion looked down to see Aragorn approaching them.

"I believe Grima must have poisoned him, yes, wicked Sorcerer that he is."

"Poisoned, dear? Well that's terrible! But don't worry; I've got just the thing for that!"

Molly dropped her knapsack and rummaged through it for a moment before producing her first-aid kit.

"Molly, what're you doing?"

"Oh, don't worry, Neville dear. It's just a little thing I always tend to pack in the first-aid kit since Ron was poisoned with Professor Slughorn's mead. Do you remember that?"

It took Neville a few moments to recall. He hadn't been present in Slughorn's office at the time, but the news had travelled around the school like Fiendfyre and students had been talking about it for days. Lavender Brown had been almost unbearable to live with, what with her dramatic screeching and gushing concerns over 'Won-Won'.

"Yeah, that's right. Harry saved him with a ..."

"Bezoar!" Molly pulled a shrivelled, kidney-shaped stone from the opened kit and held it triumphantly between her fingers. "If we're lucky, dear, this should do the trick nicely."

She marched up to the dais and climbed the steps. But before she could approach the king, the blonde girl strode across and stood before him.

"Do not take offence, Lady. But why should we trust that you mean no harm to our Lord?"

Bloody hell. Dream Girl may be a stunner, but her constant suspicion was beginning to wear on his nerves. Why had she bothered saving him if she thought he and Molly were only out to try and pull a fast one?

But Molly was not deterred, She aimed her wand at the Petrified and Stunned guards, freeing them. They shook their heads in confusion, but made no move to attack when they witnessed the calm that had fallen in the hall. Once her show of good faith had been accomplished, Molly turned to address the young woman.

"Because, dear, we came here of our own free will to help you save your people when we could have just trotted back to the safety of Lothlórien and left you to it. And if saving your people means starting with your uncle, then we're quite prepared to do that. Unless, of course, you'd rather leave him as he is? In which case, I'll be happy to pop my little miracle cure back in my bag and be on my merry way."

The woman assessed the witch shrewdly, then turned her eyes to her ailing uncle. "I would give much to see Théoden King restored to his senses, that he may once more lead our people into the battle that - if what you say is true - seems now inevitable."

There was a pause, then:

"So be it. You have the authority of Éowyn, sister-daughter of Théoden, to proceed. And I bestow it with gratitude."

"Éowyn? That's a lovely name, dear. And how nice to be able to finally address you by one. Well now, if you'll just step aside, let's see if this little thing will work."

Éowyn moved to the back of the throne and every Rohirrim in the court held his breath as Molly advanced on their ailing monarch. It was all Neville could do not to snigger when she executed another curtsey.

"Hello again, your Majesty. This won't hurt a bit, dear. Open wide."

"Sister-daughter! What is this magic that she would thrust upon me?" demanded Théoden, suddenly finding his second wind.

Aragorn answered. "Do not fear, my Lord. The Lady Molly is an able healer as well as a powerful Witch. She will not harm you - indeed she aims to cure you of your infirmity. Let her aid you, Lord, for if any has the power to do so, it is she."

"He speaks truly, Uncle," said Éowyn, giving the ranger a gentle smile of gratitude (which annoyed Neville no end - she'd only glared at _him_). "I have seen her power with my own eyes, and its might cannot be denied. Please, accept the aid she offers. Do it for me."

Her soft plea was enough to convince the king. With a weary nod, he opened his mouth and Molly popped the bezoar in.

"If you'll just swallow that. There you go."

Pleased that he'd done as she said, the matronly witch stepped back and everyone waited to see what would happen.

"Do you really think it'll work, Molly?" Neville asked quietly.

"Why shouldn't it? If it's only poison he's been swallowing then we're in with a very good chance. On the other hand, if it's some sort of Middle Earth spell that was cast on him, then I couldn't vouch for its success. But we don't have to worry about that, do we? After all, Grimworm's not a wizard, is he?"

Casting a quick look at the man still curled up a few feet away, he shook his head. "No. Éowyn called him a sorcerer, but he's a gifted Muggle at best."

Actually, now that he thought about it, it was probably a good idea to immobilise the man before he recovered enough to make another bid for freedom. Neville Petrified him then returned his attention to their unwilling host, who had begun to tremble in his chair.

"What is happening to him?" asked Legolas, alarmed at the rapid shaking.

"I think it's working!" cried Molly in delight. "Look!"

All eyes in the hall watched as the feeble old man straightened slowly in his chair. He dropped the black staff clutched on his lap and stretched out his crooked fingers. They tapered long and straight once more - not quite without all their age spots, but markedly clearer than a few minutes before. Wonder was on his face as he held them up to admire them. When he dropped them everyone could see that his eyes were sharper than before and his face was less lined. Théoden gripped the arms of his throne with his hands and pulled himself up. Slowly, he left his chair and Éowyn rushed to aid him down the steps.

Aragorn walked beside them as the King stepped first cautiously, then with growing confidence down the hall.

Molly was beaming in pride. "I feel like I'm watching my youngest take their first steps!" she said to the nearest person - a Rohirrim soldier who was watching in wonder as his king strode with renewed majesty down the Golden Hall to the doors. "Isn't it marvellous? And who would've known he was quite so tall after being all bent like that? Why, he looks half his age!"

And with that, she trotted behind the party heading for the doors to make sure her 'youngest' didn't fall on his rear.

Théoden had, by this time, reached the doors with Éowyn, Aragorn and just about everyone else in tow. Only Wormtongue (who would not have been welcomed) and Neville (who would've been happy to tag along if his ankle had been up to it) remained. Aragorn banged on the great wooden entrance.

"Open! The Lord of the Mark comes forth!"

The doors opened and wind whistled down the hall, blowing Éowyn's long hair about her face.

"Send your guards down to the stairs' foot, that they may call your people to witness this joyful moment," suggested Aragorn in a clear, loud voice which carried through the hall. "Then we must talk, Théoden son of Thengel, for my counsel will wait no longer."

The king nodded in agreement and several of the soldiers filed passed him, bowed respectfully, then headed for the foot of the stairs and beyond. He then spoke to his niece. "Go, Éowyn sister-daughter. Have food and wine brought for our guests. I will return presently."

Éowyn, clearly unhappy at being dismissed, began to protest. "But Uncle ..."

"Do not be alarmed. I am in the company of friends now. The time for fear is past. Go."

She left him to the care of Aragorn and walked back to the hall. Neville felt a bit sorry for her. She looked quite sad as she paused to throw a wistful glance over her shoulder, before resuming her journey towards the dais where he stood, then passed it to use the corridor Wormtongue had been trying to haul her through earlier.

It seemed he wasn't the only fostered child fighting preconceptions ...

**XXX**

Once everyone else was gathered on the terrace, the teenager thought it a good time to take the weight off his foot. His ankle was killing him and he wanted to inspect the damage. But the only chair in sight was Théoden's throne.

Hmm. Would the King mind if he sat down on it for a minute? After all, he wouldn't need any longer than that to take his shoe and sock off, get Molly to fix the sprain, then put them back on again. He watched the party at the door, debating whether or not he should dare.

After a few seconds he decided against it. Molly was outside with the others and he didn't want to spoil her fun by calling her back. Anyway, it would be rude to use the monarch's throne like that and Gran would probably kill him if she found out he'd been cheeky enough to leave his unwashed sock on the arm of it while he sat down to check a bruise (she was a fervent supporter of the Muggle monarchy - something he'd found out at an early age when he stumbled across a cup and saucer celebrating the long-ago wedding of a couple called Charles and Diana at the back of the kitchen cupboard).

With a sigh, he resigned himself to the position of peasant and took his seat on the steps. He unlaced his shoe, pulled it off then yanked off his sock (which was absolutely stinking) and ran his hands over his ankle.

"Does it pain you, Neville?"

Surprised, he looked up to see Legolas approaching.

"Why aren't you with Théoden and the others?" he asked in bewilderment.

"Because," replied the elf, taking a seat next to him on the steps, "there is one here who requires my aid. I would not abandon one who is in need - least of all a friend."

"Oh."

Oh no! his putrid sock was less than a foot away from where Legolas sat. The elf, with his superior sense of smell, couldn't fail to notice it soon. So; how to get rid of him before that happened?

"Erm, that's nice of you. But I'm alright. Why don't you go and watch Théoden running up and down the stairs?"

The elf gave him a blank look. "Why would the King of Rohan wish to do that?"

"Dunno. Maybe he's happy to have full use of his legs again. It's what I'd do if it were me. Course, I'd maybe be a bit more vocal and start shouting something like 'I can walk! I can walk! It's a miracle!', but I expect he's far too regal for that."

A tinkling laugh. "I think he is also far too regal to run up and down stairs, young Neville, though I admit it would be amusing to witness. But at present, he is seated on the carved stone directly outside the hall doors speaking with Aragorn, Gimli and the Lady Molly. He has more than enough company to keep him occupied."

Which basically meant the elf wasn't leaving any time soon.

"Don't you want to hear what they're talking about?" he asked with a note of desperation as the air rushing into the hall brought another whiff of his stinking sock to his nostrils. Perhaps he could discreetly lean over Legolas, grab it quickly and stuff it in his pocket?

"If I did not know any better, I would say that you are trying to be rid of me, Neville Longbottom. Is my company so disagreeable to you?"

Yikes! Legolas thought he hated him! Horrified, he tumbled over his words as he tried to reassure his friend.

"No! Course not! Your company's great. You're really nice and friendly, not at all stuck up - despite the fact you're a prince and, well, a bit of a Malfoy look-alike actually. I mean, not that princes aren't normally nice, though I wouldn't know 'cos you're the first one I've met. Apart from Aragorn. He's a sort of prince, isn't he? I mean, he's a king-in-waiting, but that's what a prince is. My Gran does have a cup with a Muggle prince on it, but I've never met him, either. Although she told me he likes to talk to plants, which is good, because I love plants. Got a greenhouse full of them back home. Not that there's any princes in there either ..."

"Peace, Neville!" cried Legolas, shaking with laughter. "I do not really believe that you are trying to be rid of me. I only wished to see if you would admit that you had been attempting to divert my attention from this."

He plucked the (stinking) sock from beside him and dangled it before the mortified teenager.

"Oh. Right. Well, I didn't want you passing out on me. Elves have a stronger olfactory sense than humans, don't they? Sort of like dogs - their sense of smell is over forty times stronger than humans, or something. Did you know that?"

Legolas was nonplussed and Neville groaned in embarrassment as he realised he's just compared the Prince of Mirkwood (and all elves) to a dog.

"Sorry. Sometimes I just open my mouth and rubbish pops out before I can stop it."

His companion gave a smile of genuine warmth. "Do not distress yourself, Neville. I know you meant no offence. Indeed, Elves have an excellent sense of smell, but even theirs is not comparable to that of the noble hound. Still, I take your comment as the compliment it was intended and thank you for it. Now, let me see to your ankle."

Neville stuck out his foot and allowed Legolas to examine it. He winced slightly as the elf's fingers probed the delicate area.

"Forgive me, mellon nin. The ankle is sprained and will swell if we do not bind it, but the bones are intact. Do you have a cloth in your travelling pack that we may use to wrap it with until the Lady Molly returns?"

It seemed a shame to go to so much trouble when Molly would be back in a minute or two, but Neville thought he should humour his friend (especially after the dog remark), so he shrugged off the knapsack and opened it. There was a pyjama top in there somewhere that he could sacrifice for the sake of his ankle (and his friend), so he stuck his arm in up to the shoulder and fumbled his way around until his fingers met cloth, then pulled. Fortunately, his aim had (for once) been accurate and the bold blue top with duelling Aurors was handed to Legolas.

"This is a most intriguing garment," commented Legolas, watching two wizards casting Jelly-Legs jinxes and Hives hexes at each other.

"Yeah, well, my Gran's going through a bit of a phase at the moment. Trying to encourage me to join the Aurors - that's the Wizarding law enforcement. Everything she's bought me for the past two years has got some sort of duelling theme on it."

"Ah, I see." The fair elf ripped a length of material from the top and started winding it about Neville's ankle. "But you do not wish to join these Aurors, is that correct?"

"Yeah, that's right."

"Have you told her this?"

Neville laughed somewhat bitterly. "I've tried. But you've never met my Gran. She makes Saruman seem warm and friendly."

Legolas tucked the edge of the cloth under a fold and pulled the (stinking) sock back over the teenager's foot.

"Is your mutual relationship so tenuous?"

"No, that's not it. I love my Gran and she loves me. She's kind and strong and the best person I know. She raised me when my parents ... well, when they couldn't, and she'd probably kill anyone that tried to hurt me. It's just that, well, she wants me to be more like my dad."

"And your father was an Auror," concluded the elf.

He nodded.

"But your heart lies elsewhere, does it not?"

"Yes."

"What is it _you_ wish to do with your life, Neville Longbottom?"

Legolas was staring at him curiously.

"I think I'd like to work with plants. They're great. I love getting my hands mucky in the earth when I'm planting or potting, and watching something grow that I've tended since it was a seed. My Great Uncle Algie gave me a Mimbulus Mimbletonia for my birthday a few years ago - they're really rare - and you could've held it in your hand when I first saw it. But now, it's enormous. It's practically taking over my greenhouse and now there are cuttings of it in the school greenhouses too. Some people say its ugly, but they just don't know any better. It might not be pretty to look at, but its really interesting and can do all sorts of amazing things."

Legolas smiled brightly at his enthusiasm. "Perhaps you could _teach_ these people who do not know any better? Show them the wonder of growing things as you see them."

Him? Teach? Stand in front of dozens of people every day and give lessons?

"I couldn't do that! I'd be useless."

"Are you so certain? I have heard the Lady Molly say that you were the brightest scholar of plants that this...Hog-warts...has known for several years. According to her, you excelled even over her son's beloved, who is one of the brightest scholars of _all_ things that your school has seen in many years. And it is obvious you have a passion for the subject - something you have in common with our friend Samwise."

Hmm. Maybe he had a point. The thought of sharing his love of plants did have a certain appeal. Still ...

"But I'm not exactly a people person. You need to be able to command some sort of authority and respect in order to keep a classroom in control; be firm, but at the same time be approachable and sensitive to the needs of others."

"Yet you have all these qualities in multitude, or do you not realise this, Neville Longbottom?"

That drew his head up and he stared at Legolas in wide-eyed surprise.

"Me? Command respect? Sensitive to the needs of others? Didn't you see me shoving my foot in my mouth when I accidentally called King Théoden a cripple? A king! Or when I accused him of not listening to Gandalf? Not to mention that ridiculous song I sang at Boromir's funeral. Then there was the time when I went to the Department of Mysteries with Harry and the others and broke the very prophecy he was trying to protect. And I'm not exactly Mr Popularity back home either. I've always found it a bit difficult to talk to people. So, no. I think it's fair to say I don't realise it."

"Then allow me to bring the realisation to your attention," said Legolas firmly as the teenager turned his glum face to the floor.

"You and Lady Molly both have won the respect of all the Fellowship - and no doubt the Valar themselves - with your commitment to fighting a war not your own, especially as your own war ended mere days before you came to Middle Earth. You have shown your strength of character time and again by defending us against the evils of Saruman and Sauron. You imply that you speak unwisely, if I have interpreted the foot in your mouth remark accurately, but that is not a phenomena particular to you alone. Many have made unwise remarks, but you do not utter them with malice and they may be excused for the most part because of your youth. Théoden King will understand this, for he strikes me as a person of good reason. And what you said to him regarding Gandalf may have been blunt, yet it was necessary. He will no longer close his ears to the counsel of a friend and speaks earnestly with Aragorn at this moment of his intentions to save his people. You have helped to bring this to pass. You may be a little reserved at times, but your courage is undeniable and you grow with confidence as each day progresses."

Legolas paused, then: "As for your tribute to our fallen friend, I, for one, enjoyed it. Perhaps you are not the most gifted of singers, but the song was unique and, despite the no doubt unintended humour it contained, surprisingly moving. Boromir would have been honoured as much as he would have been amused, of that I have no doubt."

Neville lifted his head to see his friend grinning at him. "You liked the song?" he gasped in disbelief.

"Indeed. Particularly the line about the hat."

Now the teenager grinned. "Because he didn't have one?"

"Of course. Though I wonder at what sort of hat a Wizard from another world would have imagined him in - and whether or not he would have worn it."

They laughed at the image of Boromir prancing around in a wizard's hat and it lightened Neville's mood considerably. Perhaps Legolas was right. Perhaps he already had the raw qualities needed to teach a subject that he had always loved best, and that all he had to do was to believe in himself. When all this was over and he was safely back in Yorkshire, it might be a good idea to sit down with Gran and have a nice, long chat about what he wanted to do with his life. Not about what _she_ wanted him to do. He loved her dearly, but he would never be his father. It was time she let him just be himself.

"All right. I see what you're trying to say. You make it sound a bit more impressive than it is, but I get the general idea. Thanks for helping me with my ankle, and for making me see a little sense."

The elf sprang lightly off the step and extended his hand, pulling the teenager up beside him. "It was my pleasure and my honour, Neville Longbottom. I enjoyed our talk. It is something we should do more often, if circumstance permits."

"Yeah. You're right. We've spent weeks in each others' company, we've spoken on a daily basis, but this is the first time we've really _talked_. Sorry about that."

"As am I. But let us think no more on regrets. Let us instead look forward to the many discussions which lie ahead where you once again refer to me as 'stuck-up' or compare me to a snuffling hound!"

Oh, great. He just couldn't resist that, could he? Rolling his eyes in exasperation, he joined the laughing elf as they made their way to the doors in the hope that they would catch Théoden running up and down the stairs after all.

**XXX**

Once outside, Neville spotted the king standing at the top of the steps, clasping a sword as he spoke with both a familiar looking blond rider and Aragorn. Gimli and Molly stood behind the Doorwarden's stone-hewn seat watching and listening, so he and Legolas made their way quietly over to their friends.

"Neville, dear! Why didn't you come out earlier? You've missed all the fun. Théoden has just had his nephew released from prison by that nice man Háma, do you remember him?"

Er, yeah. It had been less than an hour since he'd met the scary bloke, after all.

Molly accepted his nod with grace and continued to update them in whisper**s. **"Well, now Éomer - such a lovely name for a boy - has been welcomed back into the bosom of the family and he's told his uncle all about the things that that dreadful Grimworm has been doing. And Aragorn has just mentioned the army of orcs Saruman's sent his way, so we should hear what his decision is any moment now."

As if he had heard her words, Théoden turned to face them. "Legolas of Mirkwood, Gimli of the Lonely Mountain; I am much in your debt for your endeavours here this day. I thank you both also that you refrained from causing serious injury to the guards who, in their obedience to one they mistook as my loyal counsellor, did accost you."

Legolas bowed in graceful acknowledgement and Gimli thumped his axe handle on the terrace in approval.

"And to you, Lady Molly Weasley, I offer my humble gratitude for the restoration of the vigour left to me. Dark have been my dreams of late, but your generosity in lifting the shadow from my mind - even though I had earlier doomed you to the death of an Enemy - will never be forgotten by this foolish old Man."

"Oh, that wasn't your fault, your Majesty, dear. You didn't know what you were doing. It was that rotten Grimworm's fault for poisoning you." Molly's face clouded in anger as she mentioned the erstwhile counsellor, but Aragorn and Éomer were trying to stifle their chuckles when she mispronounced his name (again).

If Théoden objected to being called 'Your Majesty, dear', he was gracious enough not to say so. "Still, I would have you know that I am grateful. Grima named you Sorceress, but that is an injustice - one of the many he has shown you. You offer your aid in the defence of my people and have already gifted them with the return of their king, therefore I name you Shieldwife of Rohan."

Molly was blushing furiously, but Neville beamed. At this rate, his Guardian would soon have more titles than Aragorn (which was saying something).

The smile slipped off his face, however, when Théoden turned to acknowledge him.

Oh, excellent! This would be the part where he got a right royal rollicking for calling him crippled, offering him something for his gout (if he even had any) or lambasting him for criticising Gandalf. Yeah, what would probably happen now was that he'd motion for Háma, the scary Doorwarden, to come and march him all the way down to the miserable, damp dungeon that Éomer had just vacated.

Though, maybe if they were really quick about it, the spot on the bed (or whatever there was down there) that the hairy blond rider had so recently sat on would still be warm?

Well, at least that was _something_ to look forward to.

Aiming for an air of the confidence Legolas had so recently claimed he possessed, Neville drew himself up straight and offered a tentative smile.

"So you are the Wizard boy who defied a king?"

Oh, no. Things were not off to a good start.

"Who accused him of ignorance in the face of wisdom?"

Merlin's beard! The bloke was laying it on a bit thick, surely? He hadn't called him ignorant ... not really.

"And who used subterfuge to gain entry to my hall with his staff?"

Neville paled. Crikey! He'd forgotten about that! He shot a sidelong glance at the other stone seat and saw Háma glaring at him.

Which was unfair, actually. Molly had been the one to employ subterfuge (and Gimli, too. He allowed Háma to believe she was his sister, after all). Had Théoden reprimanded her? Oh, no! She was a Shieldwife of Rohan (whatever that was).

He stifled a grimace as Théoden glowered at him, getting ready, no doubt, to shout 'off with his head' or some other equally awful king-thing.

_Bet Gandalf never had to put up with this sort of abuse!_

"To you," said Théoden in a voice of grave authority, "I offer also a title -"

What? A title? Neville gulped. If his host said 'The Headless Wizard' then the teenager's fate was clear.

"- I name you the Wizard of Awes, for that is what you are. You displayed cunning in retaining the staff which helped free this Court, honesty when you spoke the truth of my folly where others would not, and great power when you magicked yourself across my Great Hall to save my sister-daughter from the clutches of a traitor."

Neville was stunned, but recovered himself enough to speak. "Well, to be fair, she more or less took care of that herself. But does this mean you're not going to chuck me into the dungeons?"

Théoden allowed a smile to play across his lips. "She did indeed incapacitate him ... most successfully. I must not forget to commend her. Yet if you had not distracted Grima long enough, who knows whether the opportunity for her to act would have presented itself in time for her to escape whatever foul fate he had in store for her. I would reward you for that, not punish you. And my reward is this: Aragorn has told me of your fondness for horses and of the special bond you share with Fæleu in particular -"

No! _No! _Not the bloody nag! _Please!_

"- therefore, I can think of no more fitting gift to bestow upon you than the lifelong loyalty that she will afford you. Fæleu is yours."

With that, Théoden gave him a beaming smile, but all Neville could think of was how he was going to kill Aragorn. He grimaced at the king who, fortunately, mistook it for a smile of thanks. Cocking his head slightly to the side, Neville spotted the ruddy ranger standing with a hand clamped over his mouth; his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

What. A. Git.

"And now, the time for judgement is come. Bring the traitor Wormtongue to me!"

The king's command was obeyed instantaneously when Háma and another guard rushed into the Golden Hall, then lumbered back out a few minutes later with the stiff form of the pale man in black. A sword was gripped tightly under Háma's enormous arm while they carried the advisor across the terrace and laid him at Théoden's feet.

"Oh, you'll probably want me to lift that spell so you can talk to him," said Neville. "_Finite!_"

Háma - who hadn't seen the Wizard of Awes at work - was duly impressed when a jet of coloured light sped from his 'staff' and struck the motionless form of Grima. The former counsellor sprang to his knees and rubbed furiously at his clothes, as if trying to make sure the spell that had immobilised him was gone, then cast a wary glance at his surroundings (probably assuring himself that Éowyn was nowhere in sight). Only then did he realise that he was bent before the feet of his monarch.

And that the monarch was standing tall and proud and looking several decades younger.

"Your ancient blade, Herugrim, has been found in his chest, Lord," declared Háma, freeing the sword and glaring accusingly at Wormtongue. "Among other things that Men have missed.

"You lie," spat Wormtongue. "And this sword your master himself gave into my keeping!"

"And now he requires it of you again," Théoden said, almost thoughtfully. "Does that displease you?"

"Assuredly not, Lord. I care for you and yours as best I may. But do not weary yourself, or tax too heavily your strength. Let others deal with these irksome guests. Your meat is about to be set on the board. Will you not go in?"

Neville was disgusted at the simpering man. Did he really not know when the game was over?

"Irksome guests?" muttered Molly, glaring daggers at the counsellor.

Théoden heard it. "Ah, but you offend the Lady with your careless words Grima."

"She is a Sorceress!"

"The Lady Molly has restored vigour where your leechcraft would see it moulder. Or do you deny the change which has come upon your master with her intervention?"

"Ever have I sought to serve you, Lord, to the best of my knowledge. But she and this Wizard-boy would cast a shadow over your eyes with their lies. And this Aragorn, self-proclaimed heir of Elendil's throne - who are we to know he is what he claims to be? It is clear that the boy has ensorcelled his mind and those of his foolish friends, but to what end we do not know! You must allow me to see them banished from this land."

"I will not banish those from my land who have done me more service in one hour than you have in five years!" barked Théoden. "Aragorn _is_ the heir of Elendil - of that I am more certain than I am of your loyalty. And he has told me of the threat from Isengard which rides towards us this very moment. An army of ten thousand Orcs!"

"Lies, Lord! Lies! Saruman the White is now, and ever shall be, your friend!"

Oh, for crying out loud. This was pathetic. The snivelling weasel had obviously found the only Alihotsy leaf in Middle Earth and swallowed it whole. He was clearly hysterical.

"Saruman the White may be _your_ friend, but he has never truly been mine. Tell me, Wormtongue, whenever you rode to the Wizard, did you rub your hands in glee as, together, you plotted the slow downfall of the Mark and her Lord?"

Wormtongue paled even more, and shot a look of pure loathing at Aragorn.

"Is that what this deceiver would have you believe, my king? That I am in collusion with Saruman the White? For there, at least, he is correct - but only in respect to our mutual love of the Lord of the Mark and our shared goal to see Rohan prosper under your rule."

"Those are the ravings of a coward whose duplicity has been unmasked," grumbled Gimli beneath his breath. Neville couldn't agree more.

Neither, it seemed, could Théoden.

"Cast your eyes around you now, my _faithful _advisor," drawled the king, whose scorn made Wormtongue quake. "See what you have wrought! Your Lord is hale again and no longer without an heir."

He pointed towards the steps, surprising the object of his attention immensely. "Éomer, sister-son, shall sit in Meduseld as its king when I pass - and he will _never_ harken to such a one as you. Indeed, he has ever sought to save these lands from your foul clutches. So you have failed to rid the Mark of its leader. As to its downfall, there is this left to say."

Théoden turned to the crowd which had assembled at the foot of the stairs to watch their newly risen Lord. "The host rides today. Send the heralds forth! Let them summon all who dwell nigh! Every Man and strong lad able to bear arms, all who have horses, let them be ready in the saddle at the gate ere the second hour from noon!"

Excellent! Saruman was in for a shock when he found out the Rohirrim were aware of his plans - and that Théoden was more than well enough to counter them.

Relieved that the long ride over the Eastemnet had been worth it (but dismayed that Fæleu was now his for life), Neville studied the grovelling git at the king's feet. If Grima could have turned any paler when Théoden ordered the troops to assemble, he probably would have.

But the erstwhile advisor had a few things left to say ...

"Dear Lord! It is as I feared. The Wizard has bewitched you. Are none to be left to defend the Golden Hall of your fathers, and all your treasure? None to guard the Lord of the Mark?"

"If this is bewitchment, it seems to me more wholesome than your whisperings. Your leechcraft ere long would have had me walking on all fours like a beast. But do not fear, none shall remain here to enjoy the ravaging of Saruman - not even you. For I offer you an honourable death in battle, which is more than you deserve. Go! Take up your sword and clean the rust from it. If you are as loyal yet as you claim, you will be proud to offer your life in the service of your land."

What? Was he joking? Wormtongue would be heading for Isengard before the forces of Rohan were assembled before the gates of the City!

"Mercy Lord! Have pity on one worn out in your service -"

Neville rolled his eyes - again.

"- send me not from your side! I at least will stand by you when all others have gone. Do not send your faithful Grima away! Who will protect you from these usurpers or their Wizard if I go? You will be at the mercy of both him and the Sorceress."

"Enough!" boomed Théoden. "I am weary of your lies. And no longer will I look to others to protect me, for I ride to war with my Men ere the day is out. As for my guests, you will no longer speak ill of them."

"Oh I'm so glad you said that, your Majesty!"

Before the king, his people, or his guests could object to her interruption, Molly pulled her wand from pocket (stunning Éomer so much that his jaw dropped) and pointed it the grovelling advisor.

"_Silencio!_"

Wormtongue flinched as the beam of light hit him, but frowned in confusion when nothing happened. He opened his mouth to demand what she had done to him, but made no discernible sound. Confused, he tried again, and when that met with no success he started screaming (silently).

"Lady Molly, you should not have intervened," gasped Legolas, slightly shocked. "It is for the king to order his silence, not yours to enforce as you wish."

Looking slightly put out, Molly favoured the elf with a slight glare. "In case you missed it, dear, the king of the land made me a Shieldwife of Rohan, so it's my duty to protect the people from harm. And believe me, if that spineless idiot Grimworm had rambled on about his _particular_ brand of love and loyalty for very much longer, the good people of Rohan would be overcome by a wave of mass nausea. I couldn't very well let that happen, could I? Not when they need to keep their strength up for what's to come."

A shout of laughter met her quick reply and Neville and the elf swapped an incredulous glance as Théoden rocked on his heels (causing a very alarmed Éomer and Aragorn to dash up the step in case he tipped over backwards).

"Truly you are a secret child of the Mark, White Witch. Yes, White Witch I name you also, for the power of your good heart shines with so bright a light that it shames the darkness into retreat."

Neville made a mental note to sit down at the earliest possible moment and seriously tally up his Guardian's titles against the ranger's. Poor Molly was blushing to the roots of her hair.

"My Lord," said Éomer from behind his uncle, "what is to be done with the traitor Grima the Wormtongue?"

Wormtongue stopped his silent screaming and watched the monarch with bated breath.

"Well, Grima? Will you redeem yourself by riding out to war?"

There was (of course) no answer. Not even a nod or a shake of the head. Instead, the pale man regarded his judge with glittering eyes.

"I thought not. So you are indeed a traitor to your people. Was the thought of power so alluring to you that you would sacrifice your honour for it? Or was the power to be Saruman's? Then what of you? What was your price for this betrayal? That you would have your pick of the spoils? But then, you already answered this when you attempted to flee with _the daughter of my heart!_ For this alone I should pluck out your liver and roast it!"

Éomer (and every other Rohirrim within hearing distance) looked ready and willing to do just that.

"But you are fortunate that I am a Man of mercy. I will not slay he who cannot defend himself. For you cannot. Gimli the Dwarf had the right of it - you are a coward."

Slowly Wormtongue rose. He looked at the people around him with narrowed eyes. Théoden opened his mouth to speak once more, but the former advisor had by this time pulled himself to his full height and scrutinised the older man's face, hands gripped in fury by his side. There was a look of such malice in them that everyone who saw stepped back in surprise. Wormtongue bared his teeth and hissed before spitting at the king's feet. Then darting to one side, he fled down the stairs.

"Oi! Where do you think you're going?" yelled Neville and fired a Trip jinx at the fleeing man.

Wormtongue stumbled and fell, and there was an audible _snap!_ as he used his arm to cushion his head from the force of the blow against the edge of the stone stairs. He screamed (silently) in agony, but pulled himself up, cradling his right arm in his left and making another bid to flee down the path towards the gates.

"After him!" said Théoden. "See that he does no harm to any, but do not hurt him further or hinder him. Give him a horse, if he wishes it."

"And if any will bear him," added Éomer dryly.

"But, sir, he'll go straight to Isengard. Saruman will know what you're planning - and who'll be helping you."

He was answered, not by the king, but instead by Aragorn. "Do not forget, Neville, that Lady Molly has cast a spell of silence on him. He will not be able to tell him anything - even if he were to reach Isengard before the battle begins."

"Yeah, but he can still write, can't he?"

Neville was nonplussed at the ranger's shrug. "The histories of the Mark are told in song, are they not, Lord?"

They turned in question to Théoden, who was still gazing thoughtfully after the fleeing figure of Wormtongue. The monarch answered their question with an air of distraction.

"Indeed. Very few know the art of the written word in Edoras, or in much of Rohan."

Well, that was relief!

"However, as my advisor, Grima was one of them."

Oh no! They were doomed!

"Fortunately for us -"

Théoden pulled his gaze back to the terrace and smiled at Neville.

"- he favoured his right hand for the use of his quill."

Excellent! They were saved!

"So, my friends. What say you all to a bite of food and a sup of wine before our journey begins? We have much to plan before we engage the Enemy."

"'Tis good counsel, Théoden King. We would be glad of the chance to sit at a friend's table and replenish our strength. And I will be glad to offer you any counsel you may seek as to where we may best strike at the Enemy. For once we have rid ourselves of Saruman, we shall be more able to deal with the threat in the East."

With that, Aragorn and the King of Rohan walked into the hall, closely followed by Molly, Legolas and Gimli. Neville, who was thrilled at the thought of a hot meal (and his very first glass of wine) was just about to follow when a large hand clamped down on his shoulder.

"Not so fast, young Wizard."

He whirled around to see Éomer glaring down at him.

Crikey! What was he so upset about?

"You will sit next to me in the hall. That way, you will be better able to explain to me why you called my uncle a cripple and held my sister at the point of your staff."

Neville paled. How did he know about that?

Well, it was bound to be Aragorn again, wasn't it? Who knew the ranger had such a twisted sense of humour?

"Come, son of Longbottom," said the Éomer in determination, throwing his arm around the youth's neck in an affable manner (so he wouldn't make a mad dash for the stairs and run screaming for the stables). "I look forward to our talk. Let us eat!"

The teenager allowed himself to be led (dragged) into the Golden Hall for his lunch.

Still, maybe if he was really lucky, the horse that Grima chose would be Fæleu!

It was enough to bring a smile to his face. Suddenly, his upcoming chat with the enormous Rohirrim didn't seem so bad ...

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Author's Note_: Phew! I did it! I was more than a bit anxious about Nev and Molly's trip to Edoras, but it's done now and I don't think it's turned out too bad.

Some of the dialogue is lifted straight from LOTR: The Two Towers, Book Three Chapter 6 - The King of the Golden Hall.

I have quoted some of it as it is found in the book, but have modified other parts to suit my own purposes. I hope it doesn't confuse you.

Neville's verses: The first is a modified version of 'Odo the Hero', the second a modified (Gryffindor) version of 'Weasley is our King' (which you probably guessed).

The title Théoden gave Nev is, of course, a nod to the magic that is 'The Wizard of Oz'.

Next time: Back in Rivendell, we find out _exactly_ what Augusta said to Elrond and discover the impact it will have on her time in Middle Earth.

Thanks, in advance, for reading. I hope you enjoyed it!

Kara's Aunty J


	18. Mini Muggle Magic

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. and Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

**Credit: **www dot hp-encyclopedia dot com and www dot Tuckborough dot net, www dot /translation/Sindarin, www dot realelvish dot net.

**Please review - it really _is_ my only reward.**

**Not Quite A Maia**

**Chapter 18**

* * *

_3 days earlier (29th__ February-2nd March 3019)_

_Imladris: The Second Council of Elrond_

.

"My Lady, it is extremely dangerous. I cannot allow it."

Augusta frowned. Can't allow it? What did the fellow mean?

Her six companions were all staring at her in disbelief. Well, five of them were. The splendidly-mannered blond chap - Floor-kindle was it? - was grinning in admiration.

Squaring her shoulders in determination, she gave her host the full benefit of her piercing blue gaze.

"I appreciate your concern, my good fellow. But I am a grown woman - as well as a competent witch - and there really isn't much that you can do to stop me. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

"But _Gondor_? What can you hope to achieve by travelling there?"

What a perfectly silly question (especially as she'd answered it a thousand times already)! Wasn't it obvious what she hoped to achieve?

"From what you've told me, Gondor is on the edge of this Mordor place that my grandson and the Fellowship are so desperate to reach. I think it very likely that he will have to go there at some point, whether before or after this Frodo fellow melts that bothersome Ring in the fires of Mount Gloom, don't you?"

"Mount Doom, my Lady," offered Glorfindel with a grin.

Mount Doom, Mount Gloom - what was the difference? It didn't exactly sound like a holiday hot-spot either way. And she sincerely doubted that the New Zealand Tourist Information Board recommended it on their 'Must Visit' list of attractions.

Then again, who knew? These New Zealanders seemed like a hardy lot (apart from her arthritic host). They might be attracted by the danger. In which case, she would be happy to give them a list of all the ghastly places she had seen or heard of since she had been there. Perhaps a letter to the appropriate authorities was in order? It was certainly something to think about. Shrugging off the random thought (for the moment), Augusta returned her attention to her host who was still addressing (ranting away at) her.

"And as I have already explained, none can guarantee that they will make for Minas Tirith. Aragorn is aware that the Steward of Gondor is under extreme duress. His City has been plagued by attacks from the evil forces of Sauron for months and - with the Dark Lord growing in strength each day - it is certain to be on the cusp of an all out assault from Mordor! If Denethor discovers that the One Ring is under his very nose, he will not rest until he has possession of it."

"Well then, it seems likely they will probably go there _after_ they've accomplished their mission, don't you think? Especially if your foster son is to be their king. So I might as well go and wait for them there."

"And what if the City is attacked? You will not be safe there."

"My good man, if the city is attacked, nobody will be safe there. However, unlike the good citizens of Gondor, I will be in a better position to protect myself - and them, if I have to."

She patted the coat pocket where her wand was safely hidden.

"You cannot mean to take on the might of Mordor single-handedly!" gasped Erestor. "You are but one Witch. The minions of Sauron will be in their tens of thousands at least!"

"Erestor speaks wisely, Lady Augusta," said one of the excessively handsome sons of (Glamour-ridden) Elrond. "As powerful as you may be, the task is too great for a single Istar."

Oh, this was ridiculous!

"I shall hardly be fighting alone if I'm in a city full of people, shall I? Or do you imagine the citizens of Gondor will hide under their beds and leave me to get on with it, hmm? Is your brother to be king of a city full of spineless wretches?"

"Nay, of course not..."

"Well, there you have it! I understand your concern, young man, and I do appreciate it but I have made up mind. I _am_ going to Gondor!"

The youth leaned back in his chair, defeated. But his father was not finished yet…

"You are not as familiar with the front lines of war as we are, my Lady. Its brutality and horror may linger in memory for years untold, long after its final battles have been fought. Would you risk such torments to your mind? For even the hardiest of Elves and Men that I have known are not immune to them."

Then what a jolly good thing that she was neither a house-elf nor a man.

"In case you have forgotten, front lines or not, I am more than familiar with the horror of war. I have lived through three of them, if you include the Muggle one. Nevertheless, I would risk anything to see my boy again. And let's not forget; it's not even certain that there _will_ be a war in Gondor. Why, young Frodo might have completed his unhappy task before I even get there! If that's the case, I'll be just in time to meet Neville coming back to your son's castle for a nice cup of tea and a hot bath!"

She would wait until _after_ he'd washed himself before she read him the riot act. It would be the decent thing to do after all his (deluded) exertions...

Elrond was clutching his fists in frustration. "You could be killed."

"It's not a pleasant thought, I admit. But if I found out that something had happened to my grandson while I was busy enjoying all the excellent hospitality your home has to offer, that would kill me just as effectively."

He frowned at her. "As admirable as your loyalty to your kin is, I must object. Forgive me for being indelicate, but you are not exactly in the first flush of your youth and it may very well be that the arduous journey to Gondor alone will affect you adversely - especially given the dangers such a journey entails in these uncertain times."

Not in the first flush of her youth? Why, the outrageous hypocrite! At least _she_ wasn't relying on the magic of her own _kitchen staff _to hold back the steady encroach of old age!

Not that old age was encroaching on _her_ either, of course (it had already arrived). No! she was as sprightly and feisty now as she had been twenty years ago! And if this middle-aged, stiff-jointed, pointy-eared, poor influence on house-elves (who were probably rolling on the kitchen floor in an alcoholic stupor while that evening's roast beef scorched into a carbon lump in the oven) had the gall to stand in front of her and claim she didn't have the fortitude to travel, then she would show him!

"I'm not exactly knocking at death's door, either!" she declared, irritated beyond belief. "For your information, witches - and wizards - can live for a very long time! Why, Albus Dumbledore himself wasn't a day less than one hundred and fifty when he popped his clogs, which would make me barely middle-aged!"

Having no idea what 'popped his clogs' meant, the dark-haired man could only frown in confusion.

"And what's more, I've never been sick a day in my life, so I hardly think a short trip to Gondor will be enough to finish me off!"

She could see Floor-kindle still grinning at her from the corner of her eye.

"'Tis no short journey, my Lady," offered her host's advisor gently. "It will be many weeks of strenuous travel on horseback. You would have to scale the Misty Mountains to Lothlórien, ride across the Field of Celebrant, through the Wold of Rohan then onwards to Minas Tirith. That is a journey of almost two weeks at best."

The long list of (oddly named) places she had never heard of made her spirits flag temporarily. Her companions - noting her crestfallen look - believed she may finally have regained her senses and it was with some relief that Elrond laid a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"Do not despair, Lady Augusta. If the quest is victorious, then we may all travel together to Minas Tirith at our leisure and there you will be reunited with young Neville. Until then, I would be honoured if you would consider my home your own."

But Augusta Longbottom was not finished yet.

"Surely there must be an easier way to Gondor, young man?" she demanded of Erestor. "Don't you have the Floo Network? Or broomsticks?"

Six blank stares was all the answer she needed to that question. Oh, what she wouldn't give for a good Cleansweep right about now! Or even Gwaihir. What a pity the giant bird had flown off so quickly! Still, perhaps Elrond would lend her a horse? Although, admittedly, she hadn't ridden in decades (having only taken a few lessons in her teenage years to impress the local Muggle farmer's lad - who'd had excellent teeth. Always a winner in her books).

"The only other option to provide as quick a passage," offered Erestor again (earning him a glare from her ageing host), "is to journey past Isengard - an unwise decision given your previous experiences there. Even were you to slip undetected through the Gap of Rohan and reach the Great West Road, if Saruman is indeed gathering an army of Orcs, then they shall most certainly soon strike at the very land you seek to traverse. You may be caught in the hostilities before you so much as pass the Fords of Isen."

Augusta brightened immediately. "Past Isengard, you say? And how long would it take to reach this Minas Tirith after that?"

Bemused at her sudden restoration to good spirits, Erestor spoke without thinking. "Five or six days at good speed, but..."

The formidable woman gave him a rare, beaming smile. "Five or six days? Well, why didn't you say so in the first place! That's less than half the time. Why, I could be there by this time next week!"

"My Lady, I fail to see how that is possible," said her host, whose eyebrows had shot up his forehead in alarm at her enthusiasm. "Even with the swiftest of my horses, it will take more than one day to travel from here to Isengard."

That's what _he_ thought.

"Of course it won't, my good fellow! It'll take no longer than the blink of an eye!"

"That is not possible," insisted her deeply concerned host. "Even Gandalf the Grey could not magic himself over such great distances."

Well, that was his bad luck for not passing his Apparition test, wasn't it?

"And even if you have such an ability, why did you not use it to free yourself from Orthanc sooner? Or magic your way to Gondor this very second? Nay, it cannot be done."

"It _can_ be done, my good man. And the reason I didn't 'magic' my way away from that ghastly place earlier was because that cad of a wizard had my wand. Not to mention the fact that the only other place I'd seen in the area was a cave full of dead orcs - dead at the end of my wand, I might add. I'd never heard of Imladris or Gondor before Gwaihir brought me here and one can hardly Apparate to places they've never visited or seen in a decent photograph. Now, however, I am fully capable of Apparating between here and Isengard and have every intention of doing so. After that, I'll just have to find my own way to Minas Tirith. Perhaps if I stop off at Helm's Deep on the way, some nice Rohirrim will lend me a horse and a guide - unless one of you would be willing to accompany me?"

The blond chap sprang out of his chair. "My Lady, it would be my very great honour to act as your guide!"

Oh, what a marvellously super fellow he was!

"Well, thank you very much, young man. That's very decent of you! And I suppose I could always turn a harness or two into Portkeys and have a couple of horses transported with us. Of course, you're not really supposed to use that spell without informing the relevant authorities but I don't imagine there's much of a Ministry of Magic in this country what with only five wizards left, so I shan't worry about that. I might have to Stun the poor beasts first, though. Wouldn't want them whinnying in fright all the way from here to the Wizard's Vale!"

"But my Lady! You have still not explained how you will get there!" exclaimed her horrified host.

"Did I not just say that I would Apparate?" she asked, irked that he hadn't been paying attention.

"And what is this...Apparate?" he demanded as the rest of their companions looked on in deep confusion.

It would be easier to show him.

Grabbing her wand from her pocket and thrusting her elbow in his direction, Augusta said: "Come on then, hold on tight."

"To your arm?" asked Elrond in a rare moment of stupidity.

"Of course to my arm! Or do you see me waving my leg in your face?"

There was a burst of tinkling laughter and the graceful man turned to scowl at his sons.

Augusta threw a glance at Glorfindel. "Well, you'd better come along too if you're going to be my guide, young fellow. The first Apparition may be a bit uncomfortable and I'd rather you knew what to expect before we set off for good."

Elrond frowned when she mentioned 'uncomfortable', but didn't remove his hand, which pleased her greatly. How very comforting to know that the decrepit fellow was still up for a little adventure despite his bothersome arthritis! Floor-kindle on the other hand, she was pleased to note, was absolutely delighted at the prospect of an unexpected magical journey.

"Now, don't worry gentlemen. I won't take us straight to that idiot wizard's front door, or anything so foolish. We will be somewhere he'll never see us!"

And before the astonished eyes of her host's children and advisor, she turned on the spot and...

...landed all three of them on the very same pinnacle which Gwaihir rescued her from not so very long ago.

"_Ai_, _Elbereth!_" cried Elrond (who was staggering across the platform and grasping at his head as if he was trying to pull his ears back out of his skull).

"_Ai, Elbereth!_" cried Glorfindel (who had recovered a little faster than his friend and, though not staggering, was checking to make sure his eyes were still in their sockets).

Augusta, however, was as fresh as a daisy. Which was just as well - she had to make a grab for Elrond's sleeve before he staggered off the edge of the pinnacle and plunged to his death onto the little balcony several hundred feet below.

Something that would, no doubt, stun her former captor into eternal speechlessness (which would not necessarily be a bad thing, in her book, if it didn't come at the expense of her kind host's life).

In order to preserve said life, she Conjured an armchair and gently pushed the dark-haired man into it.

"There you go. I don't want to stay here too long, but you'll need a few minutes to recover yourself before we go back, by the looks of things."

"That was undoubtedly the most...unusual...form of transport I have ever experienced," gasped Elrond after he had recovered somewhat.

"It's not so very bad once you get used to it," Augusta replied, Conjuring him a glass and filling it with water. He accepted it gratefully.

Her future travelling companion, however, was well enough to stare over the platform and give a cry of disgust.

"See what he has done to the gardens of Isengard! What foul madness has gripped the once-proud leader of the White Council?"

"The lust for power, mellon nin," replied Elrond gravely between sips, making Augusta frown.

Why on earth he was calling his friend a melon? Perhaps he was still a little stunned from the Apparition? That must be it. With a shake of her head, she called for their attention and pointed through the thick clouds of black smoke rising up from the Ring of Isengard.

"Over there between the mountains is a pass that must be the Gap of Rohan. I saw it briefly when Gwaihir circled the tower before flying north, but I didn't get a close enough look to be able to Apparate to it, I'm afraid."

"Indeed you are correct, Lady. It is the Gap of Rohan," confirmed Elrond. "Yet, even though I am now aware of your impressive ability to magic yourself and others across great distances, it may still prove difficult to slip through the pass unnoticed."

A flock of noisy black crows to the east caught their attention.

"Crebain!" announced Glorfindel, a little concerned. "We must leave before they see us or the White Wizard will know we spy upon him. He must not become aware of our intentions!"

"Don't panic, young fellow," said Augusta primly, Vanishing the seat Elrond had vacated and sticking out her elbows. "Grab on now, chaps. Time to go, I think."

And as quick as a flash, the two men grabbed her coat sleeves and allowed her to whisk them back to the comfort of Imladris.

"Adar!" cried the exceptionally pretty Arwen and her brothers in unison, dashing to their father as he (once again) staggered after releasing her arm.

"Glorfindel!" cried Erestor, leaping from his chair and grabbing the towering blond as he checked for the presence of his eyes a second time.

Augusta huffed in irritation. "Yes, _I'm_ quite well, too, thank you very much! Don't worry, they were perfectly safe. I wouldn't allow any harm to come to them."

"Forgive us, Lady Augusta," said one of the twins contritely. "We meant not to dismiss you. It is just that we have not seen our father vanish so swiftly since..."

He seemed at a loss for words.

"Since our younger brother, in his tenth year, asked him to explain why the ladies had separate bathing arrangements," finished the other dashing twin, earning himself a hot glare from his (miraculously recovered) father.

Ah. The birds and the bees. Mr Longbottom had had a similar reaction when first their son, then their grandson, had approached that thorny subject. She'd been left to explain it to each of them in her own no-nonsense way (Men have bits. Ladies don't. Babies are born. Any questions? No? Smashing!).

Satisfied with the answer, she nodded at them in approval and took her seat.

"Adar, where did you go?" queried Arwen as she retook her own seat next to Augusta.

But it was Glorfindel who answered. "Lady Augusta took us to the Tower of Orthanc itself!"

Ah, Floor-kindle was still deeply impressed with her ability to Apparate (though, if she was honest, his reaction might not have been quite so enthusiastic if he had returned with two gaping holes where his eyes used to be).

"The Tower of Orthanc!" cried Erestor, leaping from his chair (yet again).

"Peace, Erestor," said her host, holding a hand up to calm the advisor. "We arrived on the pinnacle of the Tower only and were not discovered. However, as I was saying before we left, Lady..."

He turned his gaze to the elderly witch.

"...I still do not see how you will both be able to slip through the Gap of Rohan without evading capture."

"I must admit to curiosity on that matter myself," said Elladan. Or possibly Elrohir.

Stifling a sigh of impatience, Augusta answered.

"Don't worry, gentlemen. A simple Disillusionment charm will take care of that. We will be perfectly safe."

Floor-kindle looked delighted (again).

Elrond, however, was not satisfied with her answer. "You have already admitted that your presence was detected once before under this...Disillusionment...and that you were forced to reveal yourself. You cannot guarantee that it will not happen again."

Oh yes she jolly well could! Because _this_ time, she'd not be locked in the great hall of Orthanc and falling for the cheap seduction of a ghastly wizard, would she? In fact, she'd be nowhere near the blighter's miserable tower! Suppressing a shiver at the memory (and a flush of embarrassment as she remembered how willing she had been to abandon Neville to his fate while she took a 'long, cool sip' of the silly man's 'lemony goodness'), the elderly witch replied:

"That was only because I gave myself away with a rather foolish burst of accidental magic..."

Which was partly true, but she'd swallow her own hat (with vulture attached) before she admitted to everyone present that _she_ had revealed _herself_ just because she'd liked the sound of Saruman's voice.

"...I can assure you, that will not happen again..."

Not in a million years.

"...because we won't be going anywhere near Orthanc, will we? So we don't have to worry about bumping into him. And his orcs will never notice us either because I've already managed to follow a full hundred of them under the very same charm all the way to Isengard without being detected. All I have to do is Apparate us a few miles away from the tower itself, then we wait for the horses. Then I'll Disillusion the lot of us - and off we go!"

"So we shall be almost invisible?" Glorfindel remarked, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "A fascinating thought. More so because I saw several battalions of Orcs marching through the filth of Isengard from our vantage point. If we do run into any of Saruman's forces, they may never know we are there..."

The man looked positively ecstatic at the damage he could do to an army of orcs who would not be able to see him.

"Exactly!" declared the witch, hugely satisfied.

"You cannot hope to attack the armies of Isengard between you!" exclaimed Arwen, whose eyes had rounded in shock.

"Of course not, young lady! However, if there's the chance to cause a little...tension...in their ranks that will have the added benefit of assisting the poor people of Rohan, then who are we not to take it? I won't be able to simply pass the orcs by and let them get on with it knowing what they'll probably get up to - not after the way that smelly fellow talked about humans in the cave. Why, the people of Rohan wouldn't stand a chance! And I know a few handy spells that ought to decrease the orcs' numbers by a few dozen - more if we're lucky."

Some of which were of her own invention (and therefore bound to devastate the unfortunate target). Of course, any decent wizard worth his salt could probably counter them (which ruled out Saruman) but those stinking orcs _weren't_ wizards. So things were looking up!

Very pleased with herself, she sat back and gave a little sigh of satisfaction.

Her companion-to-be was beaming happily. "I think it a most excellent plan, Lady Augusta. Indeed, I cannot recall the last time I looked forward to travelling with such fervent anticipation."

Elrond rolled his eyes. "And when do you plan to depart, my Lady?"

A good question. The sooner the better was her initial thought, but that would be foolish without some preparation. She would have to study maps and learn a little about Gondor and its most recent history (Neville would probably be made a peer of the realm when he returned to it in victory, which would be a good topic of conversation back home - the ladies at the Knitting Bee would be vastly impressed and want to know all about the little kingdom in New Zealand).

She looked briefly at the (still grinning) Floor-kindle.

Hmm.

He was excessively handsome.

Which could be a problem. After all, what would the locals think if she turned up dishevelled and travel-worn with a dashing young man bringing up the rear? It would be most inconvenient to be hunted_ out_ of the city she desperately needed to get _into_ just because the decent people of Gondor thought she was some sort of cradle-robbing hussy.

She'd just have to pass him off as her son. Or nephew.

What a topping idea!

And perhaps give him a new name? After all, if they bumped into the Steward of the lands, she could hardly introduce him as 'Floor-kindle' - he'd never be taken seriously. But what name? It had better be one that would spring easily to mind. She thought instantly of the splendidly-dentured Muggle farmer's lad.

"Would you mind terribly if I called you Archibald?" she enquired of 'Floor-kindle'. "Just for as long as we're in Minas Tirith, of course."

It wiped the smile off the man's face. "Archibald? Why, erm, certainly. If you think it wise..."

"I think it's probably for the best to remain incognito in the city - at least until Neville and your friends arrive. So while we're waiting for them, you can be my nephew. Archibald Longbottom!"

"Your nephew, my Lady?"

He said it with such disbelief that she narrowed her eyes at him.

"Yes, my nephew. Is there something wrong with that, young man? Because let me assure you, I am most certainly not passing you off as another grandson! Or do you imagine I look ancient enough to have a grandchild of your age?"

"Nay, indeed that would never be possible..."

"Well then," she said, cutting him off before he could elaborate. "Nephew it is. Wouldn't want King Aragorn's subjects getting the wrong idea about a close family friend after all. Think of the scandal it would create!"

The twins and Erestor burst into gales of laughter, joined by Arwen's delightfully merry tinkling. Elrond was (uselessly) trying to control his mirth, but his shaking shoulders gave him away and Archibald glared at him in betrayal.

Oh really, what was the fellow so upset about? It was a perfectly respectable name. Had she not just made him a Longbottom? There could be no higher honour than that!

Hoping he would get used to it before they left (and mentally debating whether to add another day's delay to their departure time just in case) Augusta addressed her host.

"I think perhaps if we leave the day after tomorrow, that would be plenty of time to make some arrangements and gather supplies. That is, if you don't mind me raiding your stores a little. I promise not to take very much, but I may have to borrow a horse or two for my nephew and I."

She shot Floor-kindle a look, daring him to argue her claim to blood-ties. He didn't (of course).

"Lady Augusta, allow me to make available to you whatever you may require for your journey. You may of course use one of our steeds and it will gladden your heart to know that Archibald will be able to provide his own."

Another round of sniggers from all the men (except Glorfindel/Floor-kindle/Archibald) swept the circle.

"Oh, splendid. Well, now that we have a plan, my good fellow, I'd say it's about time to start putting the wheels into motion, wouldn't you?"

"Indeed, my Lady," agreed her ageing host as he rose elegantly from his chair and offered her his arm. "Allow me to Apparate you to my study where we may discuss what provisions you require."

His grey eyes twinkled at her merrily and she almost laughed. Apparate her to his study, indeed! He'd be lucky if he could negate the stairs to the house without cracking a hip. Still, at least he was willing to risk it to escort her himself (for a change). And who would have thought the regal chap had a sense of humour?

Offering a tight-lipped smile, she took his arm and they left the garden with their companions (and a glum-faced Archibald) in tow, thereby ending the Second Council of Elrond.

**XXX**

The very next day, Augusta exited her chamber into the bright, late morning sunshine with the intention of taking a post-breakfast stroll. She walked briskly across the terrace to the stairs, grasping onto the smoothly carved handrail as she descended. There were a few people wandering the gardens already and many stopped to greet her or smile in acknowledgement as they made their way to the stables or wherever their quick feet carried them.

Garathor was walking towards the steps just as she left them and he gave her a cautious look as he approached (probably wondering where her bosom-inducing wand was). Seeing it nowhere in sight, the young ranger gave a visible sigh of relief (which almost made her laugh) and smiled at her warmly.

"Lady Augusta. A blessed morn to you."

"Good morning, young man. I hope you're well?"

"How considerate of you to ask!" he said, looking thrilled that she cared enough to enquire after his health.

Poor fellow. He probably hadn't been asked that by someone old enough to be his mother (or in her case, grandmother) in the last two years (if his ale-swilling boss was to be believed).

"I am in excellent health! Indeed, the sight of your good self and the sound of your kind words is enough to make my heart take flight!"

Gracious. He was certainly keen. In fact, he was bouncing with enthusiasm right before her eyes. If the happy chappy wasn't careful, he'd soon be following that heart of his wherever it flew off to. Deciding it was probably a good idea to introduce a little sobriety (before he threw his arms around her and started calling her 'Mummy'), she gave him one of her (now infamous) assessing stares.

"I missed you at breakfast this morning, young man. You haven't been avoiding me and my Earl Grey by any chance?"

It worked. Garathor suddenly looked like he'd rather be having his toenails yanked by a starving orc than standing at the foot of the stairs and discussing the horrific ritual she put the Rangers of the North (and everyone else) through at breakfast each morning.

"Ah, yes. Erm, forgive me, my Lady. I was otherwise occupied. Yes, that is exactly it. My Captain charged me with the care of the steeds this morning and I have been grooming them for the last hour."

Care of the steeds? What was the boy talking about?

Frowning, she searched his youthful face for the tell-tale signs of deception, but either he was being completely honest with her, or he was the world's best liar.

"I thought there were stable-hands to deal with that?" she asked doubtfully.

"Indeed, Lady. But the stables are full to capacity with so many Rangers' in Imladris. Therefore, we often lend the Elves our aid."

So, they kept the house-elves in the stables too, did they? Well, that was certainly unusual.

"And while we are there, we assist with the grooming of the Elven steeds, also. It is a small gesture of our gratitude towards our gracious hosts."

That piece of information was enough to stop the elderly witch from interrogating her companion further.

Good heavens! Elven steeds? Did he mean that house-elves had _horses_? Whatever for? They were able to Apparate, surely? Then again, perhaps it was some sort of very odd house-elf entertainment? Yes, that must be it! It must be their equivalent of sport - like Quidditch without the broomsticks. Well, that sounded very fascinating! Perhaps they wouldn't mind if she popped over for a gander? She'd never seen house-elves at play before and it might be quite interesting to watch. She could pass off her curiosity as a need to select her own mount for the upcoming trip. Elrond wouldn't mind.

Just as she was about to ask Garathor the direction of the stables, the young ranger (who was taking full advantage of her distraction) sidled around her, mumbling his apologies for not being able to stay longer and chat and made a dash for the breakfast hall - no doubt relieved that he'd be able to partake of his 'blackberry juice' without her glowering at him (he was unaware that she'd charmed all the jugs to produce only Earl Grey).

Oh, well. Her trip to the local sporting arena would have to wait until later. Which wasn't a bad idea really. Elrond might be offended if she didn't allow him the opportunity to select a suitable mount for her himself (something he had insisted on the day before). Plus, she would have to test out her Portus charm on the horses. It was terribly bothersome that they couldn't grip on to her themselves, but then they didn't have hands did they? And she couldn't exactly ask them to cling on to her coat-tails with their teeth while she hurtled all four of them towards the Wizard's Vale, could she? No, a Stunning spell and a time-delayed Portkey would have to suffice. But she would need the afternoon to practice.

Still, at least she had finally had the opportunity to ask Lindir to give her a song that evening! It was with much chagrin that she learned he had never heard of Celestina Warbeck, but he had been delighted at the chance to sing an 'elven' song for her - something which had almost made her eyes pop out her head in astonishment. She had no idea the industrious little creatures composed songs too! But heavens! They must be very good if the locals had picked them up and rattled them off at the drop of a hat. Augusta strolled across the courtyard, wondering idly what sort of musical masterpieces the much-admired (but oddly elusive), towel-wearing beings (and now equestrians) would compose. Perhaps a song about kitchens? Or housework? What would such a song sound like?

Spotting a bench overlooking the numerous artistic displays of gardenias, hyacinths and several other blooms (some she didn't recognise but bet her grandson would - a thought that made her clench her teeth in annoyance), Augusta took a seat and amused herself for half an hour with possible lyrics for house-elf songs, humming a merry tune as she composed her own version of one:

_We is working much faster_

_Since our ageing master_

_Gives all of us nice butterbeer_

_He be all Charmed and Glamoured_

_So we're getting hammered_

_Enjoying our pints with good cheer_

_._

_We is busy and happy_

_And skippy and clappy_

_With very nice workday routine_

_Just so long as the beer flows_

_We sing washing windows_

_And dance as we cook and we clean_

_. _

_If workday has been taxing_

_And elves need relaxing_

_We pick up tea towels and go_

_For nice ride on big horsey_

_Some clippety clopsy_

_Is fun for a house-elf you know_

Augusta frowned. Somehow, she couldn't picture an elegant chap like Lindir belting that out to the likes of Elrond, Arwen, Erestor and the twin pin-ups of Imladris. Still, no doubt the furry-faced, alcoholic rangers would appreciate it.

A fresh wind blew the scent of the blooms towards her and the elderly witch inhaled it appreciatively. Might as well enjoy it while she could, given where she and Floor-kindle would be going the following day.

She sighed at the thought. It wasn't that she wasn't looking forward to taking some definitive action in the hunt for Neville, but she was still rather peeved at the necessity of it all. After all, she could be sitting comfortably in her own kitchen at that very moment, eating her porridge while he filled out the Auror application form she had collected for him. Why had he felt it necessary to pick himself up and take himself off to the other side of the world to fight in another war? It wasn't as if he had to prove himself, for heaven's sake! Quest or not, when she got her hands on that boy, he had some serious explaining to do...

Just as she was debating what punishments she would devise for her wayward grandson, she heard a call.

"Oh, good morning!" cried an aged voice, startling her so much she clutched at her chest.

Where the deuce had that come from? She scanned the gardens with keen blue eyes. There was nobody there. Believing she had imagined it, Augusta lost herself for another few seconds in thought until:

"Good morning, Green Witch!"

Green Witch? Well, that was her (whether she liked it or not), wasn't it?

Augusta pulled herself up from the bench and took a more thorough look around until she spotted the owner of the mysterious voice.

Good heavens! It must be one of the house-elves!

Thrilled at the opportunity of finally seeing one of the eccentric beings that Elrond and her new friends seemed to admire so much, she made her way back to the main building and climbed the staircase to meet him. The little chap was still waving as she approached.

But he was most definitely _not_ a house-elf.

He was, in fact, the oddest little man she had ever seen. Not an inch over three and a half feet, he had snowy white hair and large brown eyes which twinkled up at her merrily. His ears were slightly pointed with - good grief! - stray hairs protruding from them (which made her thankful for the very good fortune she had had in being born female). He wore a smart yellow waistcoat over a cream-coloured shirt and his trousers tapered off just below the knees, drawing her attention to surely the most enormous, hairiest feet she had ever clapped eyes on. Another wizard's curse, perhaps (something which seemed to be doing the rounds in this corner of the world)?

Well, be that as it may, it was not polite to stare (and certainly beyond the bounds of civility to question the poor fellow's physical misfortune), so she smiled pleasantly and extended her hand.

"Good morning to you, my good fellow. And you are?"

The funny little man dropped his tiny walking stick, clasped her proffered hand warmly between his own two smaller ones and executed a shaky bow.

"Bilbo Baggins at your service and your family's! Oh, but I must say this is a very exciting moment for me! A Witch! A real, live Witch! Never in all my years did I ever _dream_ I would have such a privilege!"

Yes, she was getting that a lot these days.

"I am Augusta Longbottom, my good fellow," she replied.

How strange to meet someone older than herself in Imladris - the urge to address him as 'young fellow' or 'young chap' was almost overpowering, though it would be grossly inappropriate. But why on earth hadn't Elrond offered the ancient little man a decent Glamour charm from one of the house-elves? He was happy enough to spread them around just about every other inhabitant in his household...

Bilbo didn't seem to care - he was practically bouncing with glee on his knobbly legs as a torrent of words leapt from his smiling lips. "Yes, so I've heard. The famous Green Witch who defended the borders of Imladris on the back of an Eagle! How exciting! Oh, how I wish I had been witness to that! However, I mustn't grumble. I've seen a lot of very exciting things in my life - much more than your average Hobbit, you know, what with dragons and trolls and Elvenkings and Dwarves! And now a Witch! Who would have thought it? A simple Hobbit from the Shire meeting a Witch! And isn't it just like Gandalf to have kept such a delicious secret! But never mind all that - won't you join me for elevenses? I have tea, you know - Lindir told me you enjoy it just as much as I do. A tea-drinking Witch! What glory days these are..."

It was very rare for anyone to two-foot the formidable Longbottom matriarch, but in the space of thirty seconds, this merry little fellow had done just that. Why, she hadn't been able to get a word in edge-ways! Still, he was incredibly endearing, with his smart little clothes and bright, shining eyes. It was always pleasant to meet someone who took such pride in their appearance (but who didn't overdo it like that useless fop Gilderoy Lockhart. Every time she passed his bed on the way to Frank's and Alice's during her monthly trips to St Mungo's, she had to fight the urge to blast his teeth out. As if she wanted _his_ autograph!).

She accepted Bilbo's kind invitation gratefully, vastly relieved to meet a New Zealander who had heard of elevenses and picked up his walking stick to save him the bother of bending down to retrieve it himself (he didn't look very much like he'd be able to get back up again). Her new companion chatted happily away as he hobbled in the direction of his quarters with her matching his pace beside him (it was only polite). After a few minutes of walking and much ear-bending (on his part), they came to a door on the other side of the building.

"Now, Lady Augusta, if you would care to follow me to the balcony? It overlooks the gardens on this side, you know - I do love my gardens. And there's a nice little table and chairs set up with tea and scones - you don't object to my presumptuousness, do you? Only, I took the chance of ordering for two from the kitchens in case I should be lucky enough to spot you. Lindir said you mentioned that you might take a stroll outside this morning. How delightful that you did!"

_Lady Augusta_. She sighed. It was pleasant to be addressed in such a gallant manner of course, but sometimes...

"Thank you, my good fellow, for the invitation to tea. You are most kind. If I may ask a small favour of you, though?"

Surprised, the elderly hobbit looked up at her in concern. "Why of course, dear lady...anything!"

"It would be vastly pleasant to have someone address me as simply 'Augusta' for a change. Would you mind awfully?"

"Would I _mind..._why, no! I would be delighted!" declared Bilbo, almost hopping with happiness (and reminding her strangely of a cheerful Trevor - not that she had ever seen the stupid toad smile). "And I insist you return the favour and call me Bilbo! None of this 'Master Baggins' nonsense for you, dear lady. Oh, no! For I believe we shall get along famously and therefore ought to speak as friends do. Yes. 'Augusta' and 'Bilbo' will do very nicely!"

Hmm. She hadn't actually called him 'Master Baggins' in the first place. Still, the exuberant little man (or hobbit, as he insisted on calling himself - which she assumed to be some sort of mini-Muggle) had voiced a desire for her to address him in a particular manner and it would be impolite of her not to heed his wishes (regardless of how much it killed her).

"Excellent. Now, my good fel...ehm _Bilbo_, I believe there's a decent cup of Earl Grey awaiting us on that balcony. Shall we?"

At least she hoped it was Earl Grey.

But from the puzzled frown on her host's face, she suspected not. Oh, well. Better grit her teeth and swallow whatever it was - after all, she was a stranger in this land and the little man had been gracious enough to share the (apparently rare in these parts) beverage with her in the first place.

"I mean, I am very much looking forward to a refreshing cup of your excellent tea, Bilbo," she amended and her host nodded in understanding.

"Ah, I see. Wonderful, wonderful." He proffered his arm, like a proper little gentleman, and she took it gratefully (a feat in itself considering the fact that he was almost two feet shorter than her). Bilbo led her through his homely little room and she surveyed his domain with interest. It was a little untidy, to say the least, but pleasantly so. Scrolls and inkpots were spread across an adorable little Bilbo-sized table; a little yellow settee was angled by the fire, its cushions scattered across the floor and replaced by books. At the far end of the room, the edge of a small bed could be seen peeking behind a tall, painted screen. Several colourful tapestries adorned the walls.

All in all, a very charming little abode.

They exited the main chamber and stood upon a little balcony overlooking the beautiful gardens of Imladris and facing south across the ravine of the River Bruinen. Despite the chill weather outside its borders, Elrond's land seemed to be flourishing and the heady scent of gardenias and roses drifted upwards to create a very delightful perfume.

"Wonderful, isn't it?" said Bilbo eagerly, watching her face as she stopped to inhale deeply.

"Quite delightful."

He smiled widely. "Well then, shall we take a seat?"

Ah yes - a seat. She paused, afraid to discover how small her seat might actually be. Everything else in the hobbit's room appeared to have been made to measure his particular dimensions and she had the sudden horrible thought that she may be forced to squat in a chair meant for a four-year-old.

Very inelegant - how on earth could she carry on a civil conversation with the little fellow if her posterior was crammed into a chair meant for someone two feet shorter? And her knees would be practically shoved into her face (which meant her host would have a rather excellent view of her underwear - she was wearing a dress, after all).

The thought of baring her bloomers at her age was enough to make her blush. Not to mention the fact that the shock of such intimate exposure might finish the elderly chap off. It would be most unfortunate to have rescued the Lord of the Land's children with her impressive wand only to kill his guests with a flash of her frilly safety knickers.

Oh for goodness sake! Was she a witch, or not? She could always make the stupid chair larger. Annoyed at her own foolishness, she allowed herself to be led the short distance to the table - and saw that she need not have worried in the first place. Her host, it seemed, had made provision for his taller guest and a normal-sized table and chairs graced the edge of the veranda. In fact, as she gratefully took her seat, it appeared that her ancient companion was the one who might struggle to fit into _his_ chair: a collection of books had been progressively stacked one upon the other for him to reach the man-sized chair with and the chair itself was housed with several fat cushions to raise his height to the table.

Well, that wouldn't do! What if the poor chap stumbled on one of those makeshift 'steps' and fell over? He'd break his leg for certain!

She watched in horror as he gamely placed one leg on a precarious pile of books and began to climb.

No - it simply wouldn't do!

"Excuse me, Bilbo - if I may make a suggestion?"

The hobbit paused in his climb, slightly breathless with the effort.

"Eh? What? Of course," he replied, clearly confused.

"Perhaps it would be easier for me to offer you a more comfortable seat?"

His brow crinkled further until she withdrew her wand. The sight of it chased the clouds of confusion from his face and he eagerly stepped away from the shaky pile of books.

"You're going to use magic?" he enquired, flushed with excitement.

"Of course. I simply cannot in all good conscience watch you navigate that pile of books while I sit back in comfort. If I may?"

She indicated the chair with a nod of her head and he gave permission in kind, his brown eyes sparkling with curiosity as she approached it. With a quick flick of her wrist, she sent the books flying back to the bedroom and smiled as they landed on the yellow settee. Bilbo was thrilled when they floated merrily past him and out of sight. Then, a few quick taps of her wand, and the hobbit's rather inaccessible chair was transfigured into a more appropriate one - with little steps leading up to the raised seat itself and a handrail to steady himself with. It was identical in pattern to the carved mahogany masterpiece he had offered her, but she added a little extra padding around the edges for his comfort.

Essentially, it was little more than a glorified high-chair (without the fold-down table to match) but Bilbo need never know.

Satisfied with her work, she stepped back. "There now. Is that better? It's the same height as mine, but I raised the seat on yours ever so slightly to accommodate your stature. You should be able to mount it comfortably and sit at a level with any of your taller guests. What do you think?"

Augusta glanced at her host for his opinion, but he was gaping in speechless wonder at the pretty chair.

Excellent! A seal of approval then.

"Do you require assistance to climb it?" she enquired politely, waving her hand in front of his eyes to snap him out of his fugue.

"What? Assistance? Climb?" He seemed startled. "Oh, the chair! No, my dear, I think I shall manage very well indeed with steps and rail."

She watched as he walked towards the waiting chair and slowly pulled himself up it, before settling down comfortably on the seat. Then, to her surprise, he stood up and clambered back down it, hand sliding down the rail with each small step.

"Is there something wrong?" she asked as he reached the bottom and grinned up at her.

"No, no. Not at all - quite the contrary."

To her great amusement, he turned around and climbed back up the steps again. Up and down, up and down another twice before finally sinking in to the seat and beaming at her.

"Everything is absolutely perfect," sighed the elderly hobbit blissfully. "My very own magical chair - how Frodo would laugh!"

He was having a good old laugh himself, she observed wryly. Hmm. Wasn't Frodo the poor fellow Elrond had referred to during their talk yesterday? And hadn't he called him Baggins at one point too? That would mean her current host was the one who'd originally found that blasted Ring. But did he know about the quest to destroy it? Probably. Still, it was best not to talk about it just in case. She had given her word as a Longbottom not to discuss their meeting and she would sooner adopt a Malfoy than break such a sacred vow.

She let him enjoy the 'magic' of his chair in peace a little longer and moved to the table. A silver tray was set with cups, saucers and an astonishing amount of sandwiches, cakes and fruit.

Good heavens! There was only two of them. Who on earth was all this food for?

"Oh, don't trouble yourself, Augusta. You are my guest, after all!" declared Bilbo, recovering enough from his delighted chuckles to watch in dismay as she placed the strainer over a cup and began to pour.

"Don't be silly now Bilbo - you've had quite the adventure climbing that chair and I'll not have you getting off it again. It's my pleasure to pour for you. Now, do sit back and enjoy your tea."

And before he could object any further, she placed the small cup and saucer in front of him and offered him milk, which he declined.

Taking her seat, the Longbottom matriarch poured herself a cuppa and stirred before sipping at the brew. Mm, quite delicious.

Bilbo smiled, carefully sipping at his own tea. "You approve?"

"Quite. It may not be Earl Grey, but it's a welcome relief to the water and wine that everybody else seems keen to pour down my throat these days."

Not to mention the ale.

He laughed. "I know what you mean. Oh, water and wine - and even ale - are very refreshing in their own way, but nothing gets the juices flowing quite like a bracing cup of tea. I'm very fond of it, but so few people here drink it - another reason to be grateful for your presence. Tea tastes so much better with company!"

Ah, a man after her own heart! Or should that be mini-Muggle? Regardless; he seemed a very fine, respectable (if slightly eccentric) sort of person and she was very much enjoying his company.

"So," Bilbo began, setting a plate heaped with food in front of himself before taking a quick sip of tea, "tell me, Augusta; where do you come from and are you staying long - if I may be so bold as to ask a Witch's business?"

"Of course you may ask, my good fel...Bilbo. I come from Yorkshire in England - you have heard of England? It's in the extreme north?"

She wasn't entirely surprised when he shook his head - no one in Imladris had heard of her green and pleasant land (which was outrageous, of course). Still, the little man was absolutely ancient, so it was possible he _had_ heard of it - and had then completely forgotten that he knew. Convinced of his encroaching senility, she decided it was best not to dwell on the matter and answered the rest of his question.

"As for how long I'll be staying, I leave tomorrow morning."

A clatter of porcelain on porcelain. "So soon? Oh, that is a dreadful shame. And I was so looking forward to enjoying your company for a good while longer!"

What a delightfully pleasant little mini-Muggle! Er, hobbit. Really, he had only met her five minutes ago and already he was lamenting her absence! A proper little gentleman, if ever she'd met one!

"Confusticate and bebother! Oh, I beg your pardon, dear lady, but I was rather looking forward to making your acquaintance at leisure. Now, I suppose I shall have to be content with an afternoon only, which is a dreadful pity."

He looked very disappointed, but then rallied bravely.

"Still, there's no point in refusing one mushroom just because it hasn't brought its brothers and sisters with it to keep it company in the omelette! So let us make the best of it, shall we? You must tell me all about yourself! How did you meet Gandalf? Have you known him for very long? But of course you must have! You are a Witch after all! And how very like him not to have mentioned you - he's like that, as you know. Never reveals more than he thinks is necessary to confound one poor Hobbit at any one time!"

Did the little chap just liken her to a mushroom? What a very odd thing to do.

"I'm afraid I've never had the pleasure of meeting this Gandalf fellow..." Augusta began, but she was interrupted before she could get any further.

"Never met Gandalf? Good gracious me! What a strange thing! But then, you've probably been very much occupied in this land of Eng on important Wizardly bus...I mean _Witchly_ business, haven't you? How fascinating! And what is it you do there? Commune with Nature like Radagast? Or coax the local Hobbits into becoming burglars and taking very long walks with thirteen Dwarves in order to steal their gold back from dragons, like old Gandalf did?"

He chuckled in amusement at his own wit, but Augusta's eyes were as round as saucers. Did the little fellow just say he had burgled from a _dragon_ - with thirteen dwarves in tow? And Gandalf had been the driving force behind this? What on earth was the silly wizard about, involving mini-Muggles in such a dangerous scheme. It was very fortunate for him that he was dead, otherwise she would have given him a piece of her mind!

"Well, I certainly don't go around encouraging law-abiding citizens into a life of crime, nor would I allow them to place themselves in the path of such a vicious dumb animal!"

"Oh, no. The dragon was quite articulate," stated Bilbo matter-of-factly. "Bit too sure of himself and easily flattered, though, but he's long gone from his clockless hole and very much deader than the Bullroarer himself."

Augusta narrowed her eyes. Her host was a splendid fellow indeed, but if he thought for one second that he'd convinced her there was such a thing as an articulate dragon (conceited or otherwise), then he was very much mistaken. The little fellow was obviously a bit of a lunatic (though with more periods of lucidity than, say, Gilderoy Lockhart).

"If you say so," she said primly, refusing to be drawn into a pointless debate about talking dragons or wizards who, in her opinion, should really be on the 'Most Wanted' list of New Zealand's most hardened criminals - of which Saruman was undoubtedly at the top (she couldn't be so certain of Sauron, never having met him herself, although he was probably sitting pretty at number two - a mere one place above Gandalf the Grim).

Instead, she gave an account of her life in Yorkshire and of the Wizarding war that had just ended in Britain, putting particular emphasis on her grandson's role at the Battle of Hogwart's (as any good grandmother would). By the time she had finished, Bilbo had consumed two egg and ham sandwiches, three pork pies, an apple tart and was on his fourth cup of tea.

"A land full of Wizards, you say? And all at war with each other? How marvellous!"

What?

Seeing her puzzlement, he quickly amended. "Oh, not that they're at war with each other, of course. But I never dreamed there could be so many Wizards - and Witches - all going about their business and sending their children off to establishments of education. Splendid! And stairs that move and pictures that talk!"

The ancient hobbit was almost apoplectic with happiness at the thought.

"I really must have Erestor bring me over some maps. I would very much like to see this land of Eng. It puts me quite in the right mood for another adventure! What a pity I found out about it so late when I could have helped you on your quest to find this Dark Lord's magic treasures - I'm a very good burglar, you know. Ask Gandalf - oh, well, perhaps not. He is dead, after all. But never mind. At least I've had the pleasure of meeting an Eng-ish Witch!"

There was no doubt about it: the mini-Muggle was completely and utterly barking.

"So, now that the troubles in your own land are over, you decided on a bit of a holiday, eh? I'm sorry that you picked such a bad time to visit us all the way down here. Still, Middle Earth could use a Witch of your talents at the moment. And are enjoying your stay in Rivendell, Augusta?" enquired her new friend, helping himself to a (massive) cheese and tomato sandwich. She watched in fascination as took a huge bite before letting his eyes drop to the plate to see what he could attack after he polished it off.

"It's a very pretty place, I have to say. Very ethereal, but nevertheless comfortable," she remarked honestly, picking up a buttered scone and taking a (dainty) bite.

"Oh, that's the work of the Elves you know! They go out of their way to make you feel at home."

Yes, well, the 'elves' certainly _went out of their way_, there was no two ways about that. She hadn't seen one of the little creatures since she arrived.

"And what do you make of our generous host?" said Bilbo inquisitively, reaching for a hard-boiled egg and sprinkling it with salt before shoving it (whole) into his mouth and smiling at her. He looked like a snowy hamster with bulging cheeks.

Heavens! The little fellow could certainly fit a lot in, couldn't he? Dragging her captivated gaze from his cheeks and concentrating on his twinkling eyes instead, she replied: "He's a very pleasant fellow, I must say. Very hospitable. Refuses to take so much as a Knut in payment for the accommodation..."

This she knew because she'd found one languishing in the depths of her dress pocket and tried to discreetly press it into his hand when they arrived back at his study after their meeting in the garden yesterday (he had politely declined it). Granted, it was only a Knut - but it would have been shockingly rude not to try and offer him some sort of remuneration for all his kindness. Horses, after all, did not come cheap.

"...saying that the pleasure of my company is payment enough. If only there were more people in the world like him!" she added wistfully.

If there were, she'd be doing the rounds of every holiday resort New Zealand had to offer - regardless of how many orcs she had to kill to get there.

Bilbo's hand paused in its path to claim a jam tart from the pile of cakes (as he wondered what Elrond would do with a single nut). But he shrugged the moment off and helped himself to the treat while his guest sipped at her tea.

"I do wonder though," Augusta said conversationally, "where the lady of the house is. I haven't been introduced to her since I arrived and I was wondering if she is quite alright? One doesn't like to come straight out and ask such things, you know, when one isn't aware of the circumstances surrounding her absence and I would hate to upset the poor fellow if she has passed away."

The hobbit swallowed his tart and looked at her sadly. "Yes, I can see how that would be awkward. But you needn't worry, dear lady. His wife isn't dead, she has simply sailed into the West."

Sailed into the west? What was that supposed to mean...

Merlin's beard! His wife had _left_ him! Fled to Tasmania with some handsome devil who had seduced her away from her well-preserved husband and three fine children! How shocking!

Augusta was outraged on Elrond's behalf. Such a fine fellow too - despite his little vanities with house-elf magic. Trying not to betray her disapproval, she asked:

"His wife left him?"

"Left him? Good gracious me, my dear lady! Nothing like that. No, she left to find healing in Valinor after being captured by Orcs."

Heavens! Captured by orcs?

The hobbit easily read her dismay.

"Yes, quite. She was on her way to visit her parents in Lothlórien when her party was ambushed at the Redhorn Gate. They abducted her, poisoned her and tormented her. It was many days before her sons were able to rescue her. They killed her captors of course and Elrond was able to heal her physical wounds. But Celebrian's experience must have been very dreadful, for the poor lady was never quite the same afterwards, apparently. She was troubled by memories and fear and could no longer find any joy in Middle Earth. After a decade, she could take it no longer and sailed to Valinor to find healing."

Ah. So _that_ was what Valinor was: a hospital (on a tropical island somewhere - possibly Tasmania). It probably had a long-term care unit for the psychologically compromised. And these Valar that that Erestor chap had mentioned when she first arrived must be the establishment's Healers. Poor Elrond. He was probably devastated not to have been able to care for her himself. And those poor boys - finding their mother like that! Why, it was astonishing that they had adjusted themselves as well as they had! Admirable fellows, the pair of them. Then again, ridding the world of those ghastly orcs had probably done much to cheer them up. And if the elderly witch _did_ meet Saruman's very smelly army when she was travelling through Rohan, _she_ would rid the world of a good few more of them for poor Kelly-brain's sake too!

What extraordinary names these New Zealanders had…

But, wait a minute - if Valinor was a hospital with a long-term care unit and Elrond's counsellor had originally thought she came from there, that meant he thought she was...

...barking mad!

Of all the nerve! Why, she had a good mind to hunt the deuced fellow down and hex his tongue out! And if her gracious host hadn't been through quite enough already, she jolly well would have!

"Pardon me, Augusta, but are you well?"

The elderly witch had been scowling so fiercely at the thought of (poor, innocent) Erestor, that the (even) older hobbit had become quite alarmed (to the extent his tea was dribbling unnoticed from the edge of his dangerously tipped cup down onto the beautifully polished wood of his brand new high-chair).

"What?" she barked, unintentionally making the poor fellow jump. "Oh, do forgive me Bilbo! I was just em...thinking about how I'd very much like to hex those orcs."

Erestor. Orc. Same thing.

Taking a deep breath to control her ire, she flicked her wand in his direction and the spilled tea vanished.

"Now, why don't you tell me a little about yourself?" the witch suggested as she poured him a fresh cuppa. "I believe you said that you came from the Shire. Which one would that be?"

He looked slightly bemused. "_The _Shire. In Eriador."

Eriadorshire? She'd never heard of it. Yorkshire, certainly - who hadn't heard of _that_? Warwickshire (famous for being the birthplace of Wilhelmina Stillrod, a sixteenth century Pureblood witch who, fed-up with having her romantic articles tossed out by the chauvinistic editor of _Ye Olde Daily Prophete_ simply because she was a woman, grew a moustache and moved to Muggle London to print her works under the pseudonym William Shakespeare), Cheshire (famous for its smiling kneazles) and of course Nottinghamshire (famous for the Muggle men in tight trousers and feathered caps who ran riot through Sherwood Forest demanding money from rich ladies in return for the privilege of 'pulling on their bowstrings' - not that _she_ had seen any when she was there).

Still, it was obviously a shire in New Zealand he was talking about, so Augusta said "Oh" and let him get on with it. He chatted happily about the sleepy county of Eriadorshire, making it sound all quite delightful with its simple, hard-working folk (with outrageous appetites if the little man himself was anything to go by) who lived under hills and smoked liked chimneys (this she disapproved of, but was too polite to say) and had an entire field devoted to partying. Hobbits, as a whole, sounded exceedingly charming apart from his cousins - the horrible Sackville-Bagginses (a million times removed on his father's side and forty times on his mother's, or something like that). But then, every family had an embarrassing relative somewhere. Her own Great Uncle Herbert (once removed on her mother's side) had spent twenty years trying to convince the Department of Magical Transport that broomsticks could run on natural gas until, finally, one unfortunate woman took him at his word and ate five whole pounds of baked beans in an attempt to fly from Dover to Calais. She spontaneously combusted five minutes into her doomed flight across the English Channel and Great Uncle Herbert spent the rest of his natural life in Azkaban for being a bothersome old windbag.

Bilbo talked at length of his adopted heir, Frodo, who came to live with him a few years after his parents died and from what he said, the boy sounded extremely well-mannered and amiable. He had left his nephew all his worldly goods when he departed the Shire, much to the Sackville-Bagginses (or S-B's, as he called them) chagrin - an act of which she highly approved.

And so it was that he came to Imladris and had spent almost the last eighteen years there enjoying his retirement.

After that, his conversation digressed into the absurd as he waffled on about 'immortals' and how the house-elves of Imladris had lived for thousands of years in Rivendell - the very same house-elves that lived there today (not that she had seen one yet). Well, it was quite obvious that he was a bristle short of a broomstick, wasn't it? Immortals? In _New Zealand_? How utterly ridiculous! There was no such thing as an immortal - if there was, the Daily Prophet and every other newspaper in the world - Wizarding and Muggle - would have reported on it years ago. And no doubt Voldemort would have taken a little trip Down Under to capture a few and experiment on them so he could have discovered their little secret and used it for his own wicked ends!

She smiled politely and 'hmm-ed' and 'oh, you don't say-ed?' in all the right places. It wouldn't hurt to humour the little chap. He _was_ very old after all, and the very old were often prone to fantastical digressions. As it was, his were very entertaining (absurd though they were) and therefore she was prone to forgive his little eccentricities and stretchings of reality.

And then he said something that would have made her collapse in shock if she hadn't already been sitting down.

"...and that's why he's known as Elrond Half-Elven."

What? Half-_elven_? Thinking she had misheard her jolly little friend, she interrupted him.

"Bilbo, do forgive me, but did you just say 'Elrond half-elven'?"

"Yes, dear lady. I did indeed. It was actually his father, Eärendil, who was the true half-Elf, what with _his_ father being a Man and his mother a full Elf. But the title 'Half-Elven' has been carried down to him and his children in turn and they bear it with pride."

Augusta almost choked on her fairy cake. A _MAN_ and a _HOUSE-ELF_? No! That was impossible, surely?

The elderly witch dropped her cake on the tray and eyed her smiling companion. "Are you _quite_ serious, my good fellow?" she gasped, too traumatised at the disturbing image flashing through her mind to realise she had reverted to type while addressing him.

"But of course!" Bilbo declared knowledgeably, pleased to have so intrigued his guest. "If you want, you can ask Elrond yourself. He loves to chat about his ancestors."

Well. It must be true. As undisputedly barking as the old fellow appeared, he wouldn't have suggested she confirm it with the man himself if it wasn't.

But a human and a house-elf? Gracious! She'd had no idea they were...physically compatible. Then again, why shouldn't they be? After all, if a man and a giantess could manage to produce Rubeus Hagrid, then a man and a house-elf would probably have a much easier time of it creating Elrond's father. Fortunately, her quarter-house-elf host seemed to have the looks from his human side. But it certainly explained why he and his people were so fond of the little creatures - they were family. But why did he insist on keeping them stashed away like a dirty little secret? Was he ashamed of his heritage? What a pity! And he seemed like such a sensible fellow too. Why, his (possibly) oddly-aligned father was probably in the kitchen right this very minute making him a nice ham sandwich and lamenting to his numerous house-elf relations that his own son was ashamed of him!

However Bilbo, always delighted to have a captive audience, took another sip of his tea and related to her the exact whereabouts of the sandwich-making house-elf with his next words.

"He hasn't seen his parents since he was very young, unfortunately. Eärendil lives on his boat in the sky and his mother, Elwing, lives in Valinor. Though sometimes she transform into a white bird and flies out to visit her husband, or so Elrond says. But then, as a Witch, you probably already knew that."

No, she most certainly did not. She thought his father had been confined to a life of drudgery in the kitchens and as for his mother - well, she hadn't given the woman much thought. But transforming into a white bird? Well, it was obvious the woman was an Animagus.

But that would make her a witch.

Augusta frowned. What the deuce was going on in New Zealand? Hadn't every last person she'd met so far been astonished at the fact that she herself was one - including her host? Yet this little fellow here was implying that Elrond's own mother was an Animagus; an ability exclusive to witches and wizards (and not many of them at that). Had the Lord of Imladris been so traumatised at seeing his mother losing her arms and sprouting wings instead that he had buried all recollection of her magical powers before she had been carted off to Valinor Hospital (where she was no doubt sharing a ward with her poor daughter-in-law)?

"So you're saying that this Elwing is a witch?" she enquired of the hobbit-man, who broke into a wave of (mad) chuckles.

"A Witch? Gracious me, no!" he gasped in amusement. "The Lady Elwing is an Elf, of course!"

Of course. Why wouldn't she be? So, Elrond was not one-quarter house-elf: he was _three_-quarters.

Which, at least, would explain his fondness for Glamour charms. But heavens! She'd had no idea that house-elves could be Animagi as well. Why had nobody said anything about this before? And why would Bilbo say that Elrond's father was confined to a row-boat in the sky? Not that she believed that, of course, but still. Her new friend was walking a very fine line between reality and utter madness - that much was crystal clear.

"But let's talk more about you, dear lady," said Bilbo, pulling her from her ruminations of his sanity. "What are your plans after leaving Rivendell?"

He picked up a lonely apple from his plate and took a crunchy bite.

Hmm. How to reply? She didn't want to go into great detail because it couldn't be done without talking indirectly of the quest her grandson and his nephew were on. And - whether he was one stitch short of a new jumper or not - she didn't want to upset the little man by reminding him of the danger Frodo was in.

"Oh, I just stopped off here on the way to a friend's..."

Which was true enough. Although she hadn't _actually_ met this Aragorn chap that Neville was travelling with and Gondor was not 'his' quite yet. She hoped he wouldn't think her impertinent for presuming a friendship when they weren't even acquainted.

"...to help with a little redecorating..."

Well, he would need to repaint the walls after the Steward moved out. People rarely shared the same taste in décor.

"...and rearranging of the furniture."

His ancestors' throne would have to be taken out of storage and put back in the Royal Court (if for no other reason than to make a bigger impact when he bestowed a title on Neville after the no doubt successful completion of the quest. _Sir_ Neville Longbottom. The thought made her giddy).

"Well it sounds as if you're going to be very busy. I rarely redecorated myself, I have to admit," said Bilbo, gazing longingly at her untouched apple tart. She discreetly pushed it in his direction and he smiled broadly. "Bag End always seemed perfect to me just the way it was and Frodo never complained. Did I tell you he's off on a little adventure with his friends? Cousins to be precise. And of course Sam. You wouldn't catch Frodo anywhere without his Sam!"

"Yes, I believe you mentioned it," Augusta answered vaguely in an attempt to gloss over the subject before her companion could think any more on where his heir's 'adventures' were probably leading him. "But I don't imagine I shall meet them on my travels."

Not for a few days at least.

"What a pity. You'd like Frodo very much, I think. He would have been so delighted to meet you! Still, what's done is done. And where is it your friend lives?"

"South of Imladris," she replied, thinking herself very clever. That covered just about everywhere and let him draw his own (no doubt very inventive) conclusions without forcing her to be too deceptive.

Bilbo swallowed the rest of his tart and furrowed his brow in thought for a few seconds. "Ah, Rohan! I've never been there myself, but I hear it's very nice. Lots of horses, or so I'm told."

Stinking horses, according to Grodek. Fortunately, not according to Augusta, who was vastly relieved that the hobbit had limited the necessity to lie by selecting a location that she would indeed be travelling through.

"Yes, the Rohirrim are a magnificent bunch of equestrians, aren't they? So unusual to find Muggles who prefer to travel on horseback these days instead of using those horrid, smelly motor cars that pollute their streets. I have to cast a Bubble-Head charm every time I go to London just so I can make it to the Leaky Cauldron without being gassed. Most uncomfortable. Still, I've not seen anything in the way of those odd contraptions here in New Zealand. Although, it is _magical_ New Zealand I suppose, even if there are an astonishing number of Muggles who mix freely with wizards, house-elves and dwarves. I wonder that the Ministry of Magic hasn't stepped in to put a stop to it, though. It's not allowed in Britain. Then again, the world doesn't revolve around my fair island. Well, not all the time, anyway. Still, your Ministry of Magic probably doesn't have the staff to do much about it what with there only being five wizards left in this country - and most of them colossal idiots. Apart from them, you all seem to mix very well! How very enlightened you all are! Except that idiot Saruman. He's a raving lunatic."

Bilbo had stopped sipping his tea to stare at her oddly and Augusta hoped she hadn't offended the little man with her remark about 'horrid, smelly motor cars'. After all, he might have driven one from Eriadorshire to Imladris for all she knew - and here she was criticising them! It was probably parked behind the stables, where it had been rusting away for the past eighteen years since he arrived. Or perhaps it had been the spiel about Muggles mixing with the general Wizarding population. He may not have thought that so very unusual before she had opened her enormous mouth and pointed it out to him.

Mortified to think that she may have inadvertently insulted the gracious little fellow after he had shown her such hospitality, she smiled weakly. "I do beg your pardon, Bilbo. I'm sure it's perfectly normal for Muggles and wizards to mix in your country. And I'm sure your little motor car is perfectly pleasant too. Do forgive an old woman her ramblings?"

Surprised by the apology (and completely mystified as to what she had been talking about in the first place), Bilbo dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "My dear lady, no apology is necessary! I daresay there are a great many customs here that differ from yours in the land of Eng..."

To put it mildly.

"...and though some of the things you say are a little strange, they are not in the least offensive! And I am more than used to the riddling ways of Wizards, what with having spent so much time in the company of Gandalf. So don't trouble yourself on that account."

His aged face crinkled into such a warm smile that the witch was reassured. What a magnificent mini-Muggle he was! Such a jolly, sincere (if completely barking), well-spoken fellow! She really must thank Lindir for mentioning her presence in Imladris to him. She hadn't enjoyed elevenses so much since a five-year-old Neville - nauseated from his trip through the Floo Network - was sick all over Gwendolyn Farragut (a woman from the Knitting Bee they'd overheard gossiping about her after arriving late for tea. The odious witch had had the temerity to call Spot 'the ugliest dead bird I've ever seen', and had then compounded the insult by adding 'sitting on the head of the ugliest living bird I've ever seen'. She'd not been so quick to criticise when, after finally noticing them and strolling casually over to bend down and plant a kiss on Neville's chubby cheek, the youngest Longbottom had projectile vomited all over her face).

Still, all good things must come to an end and the formidable matriarch had a busy afternoon ahead of her. There was no more time to sit and chat, so she placed her empty cup on the table and rose.

"You are most kind to be so understanding and so hospitable, Bilbo. Well, now. I have had the most delightful morning chatting with you, but I really must go and see a man about a horse. Would you like me to clear the tray and crockery? I could take it to the kitchens for you if you give me directions."

Which would also give her the opportunity to see the elusive house-elves (and possible relations of Elrond) first-hand.

"Oh, must you leave already? And just when we were getting cosy, too!" the mini-Muggle declared in disappointment. "Are you sure you won't stay? It's almost lunchtime and I could have some roast pork and mushrooms sent up? Of course, my appetite isn't what it used to be - old age you know. But I'd be happy to fill in the corners until I burst if you agreed to stay a bit longer? You could tell me all about this Ministry of Magic and Albus Bumbledoor!"

His appetite wasn't what it used to be? Good heavens! He'd scoffed every last scrap of food on the table (except her buttered scone and fairy cake)!

"As much as it would please me, I'm afraid I can't," she replied, waiting politely as he descended the steps of his chair and grabbed his walking stick. Bilbo hobbled towards her and offered his arm, which she once again accepted. "However, I'll be in the Hall of Fire this evening. Lindir promised me a song before I leave, so you must join us."

"That would be wonderful, Augusta. I shall very much look forward to it. There's nothing quite as beautiful as an Elvish song, you know. No, don't bother about the tray. Someone will be along to collect it shortly. Allow me to escort you outside, dear lady."

And once more, he led her through his pleasantly disarrayed room until they came to the door, which he opened for her. Dropping his stick, he grasped her hand in his smaller ones and executed a gentlemanly bow. "I have so enjoyed your visit, Augusta. I admit to having felt quite despondent at watching my brave lad go off on his little adventure, but you have done much to cheer up this silly old Hobbit."

Augusta was touched. It was only natural that he would worry about his nephew's safety even before her arrival and the thought that she had managed to temporarily divert him from those worries made her very happy indeed.

"Wherever your young man is at the moment, I'm sure he and all his friends are in the very safest of hands," she said, smiling down at him kindly.

Bilbo looked at her hopefully. "Do you really think so?"

Not wanting to go in to too much detail, she simply squeezed his hands gently. "You have the word of the Green Witch on it, my good fellow. I have the greatest confidence that Frodo will be returned to you as whole as the day he left."

Unless Neville (accidentally) lobbed the poor chap's head off with the Sword of Gryffindor. He was rather good at that sort of thing.

"Well, I feel strangely comforted by that, I must say. If the Green Witch says he will return to me whole, then I defy even the Dark Lord Sauron to prove otherwise! Farewell, my dear lady. Until this evening!"

"Good day, Bilbo."

She levitated his walking stick with a quick flick of her wand before she left and he snatched it happily from the air, waving her goodbye with his free hand.

As she rounded the corner of the hall and lost the hobbit from sight, Augusta reflected on the very pleasant hour or two she had spent in his company. She had learned more about Imladris and its inhabitants from one endearing (if barking) mini-Muggle than she had from anyone else since she arrived. Flying row-boats and outrageous claims to immortality notwithstanding, Elrond and his family were more alluring to her now than the Muggle house of Windsor.

And unless the Queen Mother was some sort of Animagus house-elf, it would likely remain that way too.

Very satisfied with herself and (most of) the world in general, the elderly witch marched briskly towards her three-quarter-house-elven host's study to continue her preparations for the next day's departure.

**XXX**

As it turned out, Augusta and Glorfindel were not able to leave until much later the next day. Their trip had to be postponed for several hours to allow her to perfect her rusty Portus spell (the first attempt had sent their chosen steeds whizzing through the air from the stables until they landed on the roof of her host's house - and not on the other side of the courtyard as she had intended). Relieved that she'd had the foresight to Stun them beforehand, it had nevertheless taken twenty men and a good Floatation charm to get them safely back on the ground.

Still, at least it had given the ale-swilling rangers something to do other than...swill ale (or Earl Grey, as the case now was). Not that she saw much of them after mealtimes. They were strangely elusive for the rest of the day...

However, now that her Portus was perfect, she charmed the chosen objects (the horses' reins) to wait ten minutes before they activated and turned to her host. Elrond and his entire household had turned out to see her and Glorfindel on their way and the courtyard was full to capacity. Even Bilbo had dared the steps leading down to it to say farewell to his new friend. The hobbit tottered across to the Stunned steeds and stood before them, fascinated.

"They look like statues!" he cried in delight, prodding at her own mount lightly with his little walking stick. Her Stupefy had caught the mare mid-whinny and it looked like it was having a very good laugh at everyone.

"Yes, they do don't they? But they'll soon come to rights when we get where we're going."

"But aren't you going to ride them to Rohan? And I had no idea Glorfindel was accompanying you on your trip to your friend's house."

Ah. How to divert the shrewd fellow? She didn't want her aged friend to start worrying about _her_ safety as well as his nephew's.

"We'll ride them the last few miles or so. But I know of a very convenient method to get the longest part of the journey over with. After that, my knowledge of the area is scant at best, so my young friend here has volunteered to show me the rest of the way to Rohan. Isn't that right, Archibald?" Spot wobbled precariously as she swung her head to face her travelling companion.

"Archi-who?" queried Lindir as he gently guided the ancient hobbit away from her horse (before Bilbo beat the living daylights out of it with his micro-stick). Many in the crowd were muttering in confusion and all eyes followed hers as she cocked an imperious eyebrow at Floor-kindle.

The stunning blond, who had been beaming in anticipation of the adventure to come, promptly lost his grin as the elderly witch and the entire population of Imladris swivelled to face him. His secret, it seemed, was out. He glowered silently at Elladan and Elrohir as they stifled their chuckles.

"_Archibald?_" declared Lindir in disbelief - loud enough that the stragglers at the back of the crowd could hear it. There was a wave of laughter and Augusta's new family member flushed in embarrassment.

Lindir grinned. "That is a most delightful name, my Lady," he said (lying outrageously) "Does it hail from your own lands?"

"Yes. It is a fine name, isn't it?" she said, very pleased that the artiste in the group had spotted its potential. "As a matter of fact, I've always thought it would sound rather nice in a song."

Glorfindel paled visibly.

"You know, something along the lines of: _O, Archibald with the gleaming teeth, your name is fair beyond belief, I watch you as you tend and keep, the farm where you have all your sheep._"

Oh. Perhaps she oughtn't to have let her imagination run away with her in front of so many people? But the name did conjure up the smiling face of the Muggle farmer's lad and she hadn't been able to help herself. Still, at least she hadn't put it to music, and her little poem did seem to have gone down a treat - everyone was clapping and smiling (except Floor-kindle, she was disappointed to note. Really, hadn't the fellow gotten used to it by now?).

"Bravo, Augusta!" exclaimed Bilbo, clapping in earnest.

"It appears you have competition, Lindir," said Elrond, smiling widely at his eccentric guest. "A pity we did not have the honour of hearing this poetic masterpiece in the Hall of Fire yester-eve. Perhaps you will entertain us with it when you return, my Lady?"

"That's very flattering, my good fellow, but I could never measure up to the exceptional talents of young Lindir. And who would have known that house-elves wrote such beautiful songs? No, I think I'll leave the real creativity to the professionals."

There were a few puzzled frowns when she mentioned house-elves but Arwen, her host's outrageously pretty daughter, smiled enigmatically.

"You do yourself an injustice, Lady Augusta. I thought it most creative," declared Lindir, bowing at her elegantly and grinning cheekily at his fuming friend.

Elrond, deciding it was best to distract the Balrog slayer before he took a butter knife to the resident minstrel, turned to face the two travellers and spoke quietly enough that only they and those that had been present at the Council could hear.

"And so now you depart Imladris to seek reunion with your grandson, my Lady. I beg that you go with caution, for I would be most distressed if aught should happen to you."

"Don't worry on my account, my good man. I shall be perfectly safe. It'll take more than an army of orcs to stop this Longbottom in her tracks."

"Be that as it may, I would rest easier knowing that you are doing all within your considerable power to see to your own safety."

"That's very kind of you to say. I shall certainly do all I can to keep both myself and this fine young fellow here in one piece, you may rest assured on that."

Her companion perked up a bit at the compliment.

"Now, let me thank you very much for the hospitality you have shown me. I can honestly say this is the prettiest holiday resort I have ever been to and you are the finest proprietor. When I get home, I shall be recommending it to all my friends, so it may very well be that you have an influx of ladies from the Knitting Bee popping down to visit..."

Elrond looked completely flummoxed.

"...but I would advise you to keep an eye on Gwendolyn Farragut. Ghastly woman. If she gives you any trouble, just tell her that you have a five-year-old grandson who wants to say hello to her - that should keep her in line. And thank you too for the loan of the horse. I'm sure she and I shall get along famously. I'll return her to you of course just as soon as that scallywag of a boy is finished with his...erm...little job and has come back to me."

"Any friend of the Green Witch shall be counted a friend of Imladris, my Lady, and therefore be welcome in my home," said Elrond, deciding it was probably better just to humour the formidable granny's extraordinary warning about ghastly women and knitting bees. "And Celebrithil is one of our gentlest mares. She will carry you safely to your journey's end and both she and Asfaloth carry enough provisions to keep you sustained for its duration. I await your own safe return to the Last Homely House in anticipation and will be most delighted to make the acquaintance of your brave grandson, Neville Longbottom."

Yes, well _he_ might look forward to it, but whether or not Neville would be alive long enough to meet her fine host would depend very much on whether or not she killed the boy after he got back to Gondor from Mount Gloom.

Suppressing the desire to voice that thought aloud (in case the man had her arrested and thrown into the New Zealand equivalent of Azkaban), Augusta smiled thinly and gave a brisk nod of her head.

"Quite. Now, are you ready my good man?" she asked the tall blond who stood beside her patiently.

"I am more than ready, Lady Augusta," replied Glorfindel grinning widely.

"Well then, let's get you Disillusioned."

She rapped him smartly with her wand and his features began to fade from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes as he took on the exact colour and texture of the oak tree behind him. A gasp of amazement rose up from the watching crowd.

"_Elbereth Gilthoniel!_" cried one of the pin-up twins. "A most effective method of camouflage! What does it feel like, Glorfindel?"

The answer appeared as if from nowhere. "Most unusual indeed. It felt at first as if Halbarad had dropped his mug of ale upon my head, as he did yester-eve..."

What? Where the deuce did the furry ranger get ale from? Had she not charmed all the jugs to produce only tea? Augusta threw an accusing glare at the guilty man (who was trying to shove Garathor in front of himself in a bid to escape her notice). Well, he'd not be getting any more of it - she had taken care of that this morning with one of her own little spells!

"...though now that sensation has passed. I cannot see myself, yet I feel the beat of my heart and the brush of fabric on my skin. It is most intriguing."

"You'll get used to it!" piped Bilbo in delight. "I know I did..."

Augusta stared at her little friend, perplexed. What on earth was he talking about? Did he have an invisibility cloak stashed somewhere - a gift, perhaps, from Gandalf the Grim that he'd used to slip into the dragon's cave and commit his acts of burglary?

"...but why do you have to be invisible to go to Rohan? Although, I suppose it's not a very bad idea - you might run in to some troublesome trolls. If you do, I suggest that you try and keep them entertained with a story or a riddle until the morning comes. Trolls tend to turn to stone in daylight!"

Bilbo looked exceptionally pleased at having had the opportunity to share his (dubious) wisdom and once again, he managed to throw the elderly witch off balance. Turn to stone? How ridiculous! What was the little fellow talking about now? She spared him a concerned glance, convinced that he had finally succumbed to the full ravages of senility and hoped that she could still convince him of their mutual acquaintance when she returned with Neville.

"Yes, well, that's exactly it. We're trying to avoid trolls, Bilbo. Now, let me just Disillusion myself too..."

Which she promptly did.

"...and have Archibald hold on tight. Follow my voice, young man. No! Take your hand _off_ there! That is _not_ my arm..."

A round of laughter.

"Gracious! You almost gave me heart failure! What do you mean by grabbing at my...oh, never mind. I'll take your hand and guide it...that's better. Now, we'd better be off or the horses will get there before us."

"But should we not render them invisible also?" came the disembodied voice of Glorfindel. "What if they are seen arriving?"

"Well of course they'll be seen arriving - by us. It would hardly do to Disillusion them just now. However would we find them otherwise? They are Stunned, you know. And who is going to be suspicious of a couple of rider-less horses for all the time they'll be visible, hmm? Now, do remember to speak clearly when we set off. I don't want to lose the sound of your voice while we're under this charm and find myself riding over the edge of a cliff!"

"_Navaer_, Green Witch! _I laiss e-guil gîn ava fired_!" declared Elrond, bowing elegantly in what he hoped was her direction.

Having absolutely no idea what he was babbling on about (but liking the musical quality of it nonetheless) she waggled an unseen finger at him. "No need to keep bowing, my good fellow. We don't want you locking yourself at the waist or you'll have to spend the next week in your pretty little hospital wing trying to straighten yourself out!"

Glorfindel laughed at the look of shocked surprise on Elrond's face, but his merriment was soon spoiled.

"Navaer, Archibald!" chorused Elladan, Elrohir and Lindir in unison, eliciting a giggle from Arwen and a grunt of annoyance from the camouflaged warrior.

"Cheerio everybody! I look forward to seeing you all again very soon. Say hello to your relations in the kitchens for me, Elrond Three-Quarters-House-Elven!"

And with that, there was a soft _pop! _and they were gone.

**XXX**

The next morning, Elrond Three-Quarters-House-Elven was sitting on his study balcony on a secluded part of the terrace which overlooked the river. He was contemplating the many mysteries and eccentricities of his recently departed guest when there was a swish of fabric behind him.

"Mae govannen, sell nin. You are not occupied with your banner this morn?"

Arwen joined her father on the balcony and sat by him on the red settle as they watched the morning mists slowly dissipate across the Bruinen.

"It is done, Adar. I completed my work only a half hour ago and now find myself quite idle."

"Then I am pleased you sought to spend your free time with me, sell vuin," he replied, bestowing a kiss on her temple.

"I could think of nowhere I would rather be at this moment, Adar. I had contemplated breaking my fast in the dining hall, but it is a sad place this morning now that the Lady Augusta has departed. The Rangers of the North are quite beside themselves with sorrow."

This was news to Elrond. He had thought the Dúnedain would be crowing with happiness at not having to wash themselves every morning before appearing for breakfast (which she had insisted upon), not to mention that they would now be able to forego the curse of Earl Grey.

Earl Grey. His taste buds protested at the thought of the beverage. It was something she had been attempting to foist on most of Imladris. And he had thought _Bilbo_ was bad - at least the aged hobbit had not the energy to stalk the halls of his host's home armed with a cup and saucer and ready to pounce on the first unsuspecting person he saw (and the threat of witchcraft if they refused). The Rangers of the North had taken to smuggling ale into the bathing hall (the only place she never entered as all the ladies bathed in their chambers).

"Indeed? Why is that?"

Arwen smiled. "It appears the lady did not lift the spell on the ale-jugs before departing. Furthermore, when we attempted to replace them this morning, those jugs also filled with her preferred beverage. I do not know how she accomplished this, for none have seen her near the kitchens, but the Rangers are distraught. All our supplies of ale have mysteriously vanished and they have been reduced to begging for blackberry juice."

Elrond laughed heartily.

"Ai, she is the most extraordinary woman I have ever met!" he gasped. "Nay, the most extraordinary of all mortals! She frowns upon the intake of ale, but thinks naught of thrusting herself recklessly into harm's way for the sake of strangers."

"Yet it was not so reckless, Adar. Our kin and friends were glad of her aid on the borders, as will the people of Gondor no doubt be if it is required there also."

"You speak wisely, child." said Elrond after his mirth had been expended. "She is a valiant Witch and a worthy protector. Yet still I am troubled that she may come to harm, for she is not the youngest of women."

"Do not forget that Gandalf himself had a form of great age. He, also, was limited to its confinements, yet it did not limit his strength."

"But Gandalf has fallen, Arwen. His strength could not prevent his death."

"And it did not prevent his victory either. The Balrog was slain, was it not? Lady Augusta may not possess the physical strength of her male counterpart, but her endurance and character are undisputable. She prevailed for almost two weeks under the cruelty of Saruman the White. She achieved an easy victory against the enemy forces at the Bruinen. I do not believe that she will meet her doom in Gondor. Indeed, it may be more accurate to say..."

The elleth smiled mischievously.

"...that Gondor may meet its doom under _her_."

"Only if the Steward is as partial to his ale as Halbarad and his Men, which I doubt," returned her smiling father. He stood and walked to the balcony railing, before turning around to face his daughter.

"Did the lady strike you as a little..."

Hmm. How to put it politely?

"...peculiar?" he finished.

"In what way?"

In what way? Ai, Elbereth, if he had to list all of the Green Witch's oddities, he would be standing on the balcony until he faded.

"Her manner of address, for one thing. Not once did I hear her addressing anyone by their given name - other than Bilbo in the courtyard as she left, and myself once during the Council. I do not count Glorfindel, because - as you know - Archibald is not his real name."

They both laughed as they remembered the blond elf's incredulous expression when Augusta made the initial suggestion.

"I believe she once addressed Halbarad by his name," Arwen said with a smile.

"Ah, but that was more of a reprimand for trying to conceal the truth of his ale-swilling ways from the lady, according to Elrohir. Something that will teach the 'furry-faced' Man not to attempt diversion with a Witch in the future, no doubt."

"_You_ were surely not offended that she barely addressed you by name, were you - my good fellow?"

Elrond narrowed his eyes at his daughter, who was giggling daintily on the settle.

"Nay, 'young lady', I was not. I merely thought it strange."

"Perhaps it is merely her way. Imladris is not her England and she may have difficulty pronouncing some of our names. We must make allowances for that. I, for one, thought it charming."

"That is a reasonable argument. But it is not merely that. It is as if she has no real concept of _who _we are. Yester-eve during Lindir's performance in the Hall for example: she mentioned to me that the Lay of Lúthien was unusually eloquent for a 'House-Elf' song and that she had instead been expecting one about the scrubbing of staircases or roasting of chickens."

Arwen exploded into very unladylike gales of laughter.

"Also, when I was selecting her steed for her that afternoon, she related the most unusual tale of a person named Hagrid, who is apparently the progeny of a Man and a Giantess - then spent half an hour explaining to me that he did not feel the need to charm his appearance to hide his parentage and that neither should any other borne from such an unusual union. I cannot say for certain, as she did not say it outright, but I do believe she was referring to me. She also conjured a chair for me in the middle of the stables, that I might 'take the weight off my aching hips'."

"Adar! Stop!" cried Arwen who was scarlet with mirth. Her hair had fallen about her face and she shook almost uncontrollably on the settle they shared. Elrond wondered idly if his foster son had ever seen the elegant beauty quite so dishevelled (then clenched his jaw in paternal ire as he thought about what he would do to the future King of Gondor if he had).

"But surely you noticed her peculiar manner yourself?"

"Indeed," gasped the Evenstar, wiping tears from her dark lashes. "From the first moment of my acquaintance with her, I sensed that she did not realise where exactly she was, or who - or what - we really were."

This news astounded him.

"Then why did you not seek to explain it to her?" exclaimed the elf lord.

"Why did _you_ not seek to explain it to her? You knew she hailed from a foreign world before any other."

"Because I...that is she was...I mean to say..."

"Why, Adar! Were you _intimidated_ by her?"

He flushed. "Nay, I was not!"

"You were! Ai, Elbereth, but you _were_! Oh, that is too delightful. The mighty Lord of Imladris, cowed into submission by a sweet old lady!"

Elrond glared at his offspring. "If you were not my own daughter, I would sell you to the highest bidder."

"You would do no such thing, Adar vuin," she replied, snaking her arm through his and leaning her head on his shoulder. "Because you would still love me as if I were your own daughter."

An excellent point.

"But do not trouble yourself. Your fear..."

He glowered at the top of her head and, sensing it, Arwen amended her word.

"...I mean your _awe_ of the Lady Augusta shall be our little secret. In answer to your question, though: I did not reveal our true identities or her real location because I think it unwise to do so at this time. She is in a strange world with unfamiliar races on a noble quest to find her missing kin. If the illusion of her own sense of reality aids her to this end, then I would not wish to shatter it. She is more than able to cope with anything Middle Earth has to offer, after all. She bested Saruman in his own Tower, disposed of untold numbers of Orcs both on her arrival in the Wizard's Vale and on the borders of our lands, and she has won the respect of the Lord of the Eagles and all in Imladris, has she not?"

"That is so," answered her father as he stroked her hair gently.

"And though she may not realise _where_ she is, there can be no doubt that she is a woman of intelligence who will command respect wherever she goes, without ever actually demanding it."

Elrond frowned. The Rangers of the North might not agree with that last statement. And neither would the dozen or so Orcs whose corpses had littered the grass (and trees) on the opposite side of the Bruinen.

"I suspect that she will be more than able to take care of herself, whether or not she knows the reality of her situation," stated Arwen confidently.

"True. And if - when - she is reunited with her grandson, he will be able to explain the ways of Middle Earth to her in a manner that she will be more likely to accept. Unless Glorfindel does so first. They shall be spending many days in each other's company before they even arrive in Gondor."

"Nay. I bade him not to offer the information unless she made a specific request, for only then would she be more receptive to the possibility of her situation and better able to accept it."

The ancient elf lord grinned. "So it seems that he will remain 'Archibald' for the duration of the trip - whether he likes it or not. How amusing."

Tinkling laughter drifted up from his daughter.

"Tell me, sell nin - do you also suspect there are Elves in her world?"

He felt her shaking with mirth again.

"Yes. But I do not believe they can be anything akin to us if she refers to them always as 'House-Elves'."

Well, he completely agreed with that. What was more, he would happily sacrifice his right arm if he could get even the merest glimpse of their name-cousins from this 'England' that the Green Witch was so fond of.

"And what do you think they look..."

Before Elrond could finish his question, the door to the study behind them flew open and his sons raced through. He rose swiftly with Arwen in tow and they hurried (elegantly) into the room.

"Adar! We must speak with you urgently!" cried Elrohir.

"What has happened? Has there been another attack?" he demanded in full Elf Lord mode.

"Nay, it is something of far greater import than that!" declared Elladan in wide-eyed earnest.

Of greater import?

"Has someone been injured?" he asked, ready to fly through the door to the healing room.

"Nay, Adar! It is the White Wizard. He is come!"

Saruman!

Elrond's heart leapt angrily in his chest.

But he had not heard the worst...

"_And he seeks the Lady Augusta!"_

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

Translations:

_Navaer_ - Farewell

_I laiss e-guil gîn ava fired - _May the leaves of your life never die.

_Mae govannen, sell nin _- Well met, my daughter

_Sell vuin_ - Beloved daughter

_Adar _- Father

_Adar vuin_ - Beloved father

_Celebrithil_ - Silver pearl (a cobbled together invention of my own. There's no one else to blame for it if it's wrong, I'm afraid).

_Author's Note:_ Well, here it is. The Augusta/Bilbo scene that couldn't be avoided. I say 'avoided' now. Before I wrote it, I was greatly anticipating it myself, but as it turns out it was incredibly difficult to characterise Bilbo (the one famous hobbit I'm not as familiar with as the others), so I hope it's not been too great a disappointment.

Next time: Neville, Molly and Co. prepare for war as they follow the Rohirrim to Helm's Deep.

'Til then,

Kara's Aunty ;)


	19. Foresight and Foreigners

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. and Lord of the Rings and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

**Credit: **www dot hp-encyclopedia dot com and www dot Tuckborough dot net, www dot /translation/Sindarin, www dot realelvish dot net.

**Please review - it really is my only reward.**

**Not Quite A Maia**

**Chapter 19**

* * *

_Third Age: 2nd-3rd March 3019_

_Edoras_

In the Great Hall of Edoras, the tables that Neville and his friends had shared with the King during the noon meal had been cleared of all plates and goblets. In their stead were the numerous Stupefied plants that the teenager had freed from the customised container in his knapsack.

In fact, there were so _many_ plants, that the table wasn't large enough to hold them all. Both the young wizard and Molly had to clear a large area around it to settle the overspill vegetation on the floor, giving strict instructions to all present that no one touch a thing.

"Venomous Tentacula: eight. Devils Snare: fifteen. Bubotubers: two hundred and fifty..."

"You brought fully-grown _Mandrakes_?"

Molly's incredulous voice interrupted Neville's inventory.

"Yes."

The witch frowned in concern, tugging at her dragon-hide gloves as she eyed the long green leaves sticking out of a row of tightly-wrapped, dampened cloth bundles.

"Neville, dear; you know how dangerous they are. You've not even got them potted!"

"Dangerous?" queried Legolas in fascination, hovering as near to the array of plants as they would allow him. "But they move not."

"That's because I Stupefied them...I mean, put a spell on them to keep them still. Anyway, it's not their movement that's dangerous - it's their cry."

The fair elf looked sceptical. "They _cry_?"

"Yes. When exposed from the soil, the fully-grown Mandrake's screech is fatal to all who hear it."

"I see," replied the elf, taking a few discreet steps back in alarm.

"And I couldn't leave them potted, Molly. When we're in the middle of a battle, there just won't be the time to take them out their pots before I'll have to use them."

"I suppose you're right," she said. "But I hope you're really good at Banishing charms, because you'll need to make sure they're far enough away from the Rohirrim that they don't take out our own boys."

Neville grinned. An army of experienced, fully-grown warriors - and she still called them boys. The grin slipped a little as he remembered that Théoden had called for 'every man and strong lad able to bear arms'. Perhaps her concern was not so unwarranted.

"Don't worry. I'll be using Harry's cloak to go to the rear half of the orc army before I chuck them in."

"And how, son of Longbottom, will a mere cloak help you to slip so far unnoticed into the Enemy's ranks and disable them?"

The teenager turned to see Éomer and his uncle approaching him with Aragorn and Gimli in tow. They halted a couple of metres away.

"Well, it's an Invisibility Cloak. It'll hide me completely - the orcs will never know I'm there."

"Unless you trip over your own feet again, lad, as you did on the steps when you came to the Lady Éowyn's aid," remarked Gimli, peering at a multitude of spiky, dark-red plants arrayed on the floor by the dais.

He flushed. "Erm, yeah. Well, don't worry, I'll be careful."

"How is it that you were able to store so much in your pack?" asked Théoden in fascination.

"He shrank them, of course," answered Molly as she counted the Snargaluffs on the table. "And the knapsack is treated with an Extension charm. There's plenty of room for this lot and more."

"Truly, you are a Wizard and Witch of great power to achieve such! Do you believe that these...plants...will be able to afford us assistance?"

"Oh, yeah!" exclaimed Neville. He took a few steps towards them and they saw his eyes glowing in enthusiasm. "You see those..."

He pointed to the gnarled stumps Molly was counting and they nodded.

"...they're Snargaluffs. When they're attacked, they spring to life and send out large, bramble-like vines that ensnare and disable assailants. I've got fifty of them, so that's fifty less orcs we have to worry about once we throw them into their ranks. And those..."

His finger indicated the plants Gimli was frowning at.

"...they're Venomous Tentacula. See the feelers protruding from the base? They shoot to enormous length and capture prey, drawing their victim to the red part. The spikes on the main body are teeth and, well, you can guess what that means."

"Are you telling us they _eat flesh_?" demanded Gimli, springing back from his inspection of them. The bushy dwarf had drawn his axe and was glowering at them malevolently.

Neville nodded. "Yes. And, luckily for us, they're not particularly fussy about what kind of flesh they eat. I imagine Saruman's ugly friends will taste just as good to them as a human would."

"'Tis unnatural! A flesh-eating plant! Who ever heard tell of such a thing?"

"Don't worry, Gimli. We'll make sure they're kept well away from our side," chirped Molly, in an attempt to soothe the ruffled dwarf.

"And these are Mandrakes," continued the teenager before his irate friend could say another word. "There's only twenty-two left - we used a lot during the Battle of Hogwarts - but once I throw them into the mass of orcs, their shrieks will kill a few hundred. Possibly more."

Aragorn's brow furrowed in concern. "But then they will also kill you, Neville. You will be close enough to hear them. I cannot say that the thought of that comforts me. Also, how long do these killing shrieks last? What if they fell our own forces during of a battle of many hours?"

Pleased at his friend's concern for his safety (and relieved that he'd already considered the possible dangers to their own men), the teenager smiled.

"Oh, don't worry. I've treated them with a Hear-Me-Not hex that'll automatically kick in after an hour. They can shriek all they want after that, but no one will hear them. I used it at Hogwarts during the final battle and it worked just fine. As for me, I'll be wearing earmuffs when I throw them, so I'll be fine too."

He navigated his way through the plants to the table and pulled his knapsack from it, producing a pair of fluffy brown earmuffs. Placing them over his head, he walked back to his friends grinning triumphantly.

"They'll stop any dangerous cries filtering through," he announced proudly (not realising he was shouting until the others flinched).

Pulled them off his head, Neville gave a sheepish grin. "Sorry. Anyway, I have an extra pair of these for Legolas."

"For me?"

"Yes. 'Superior elven hearing' and all that. We don't want one of our best fighters floored by a plant before the battle really begins. Here, try them on. They're quite comfortable."

Aragorn and Gimli broke into wide smiles as he eagerly proffered the earmuffs to the elf (who was eyeing them with a strange mixture of relief and disgust).

"That is most...thoughtful...of you, Neville. However, I believe it shall suffice if I wait until they are needed."

"Come now, Legolas! You will have to familiarise yourself to the feel of them on your head, lest the strangeness of them distracts you in battle. 'Twould be a pity for you to be saved from the cry of the Man-drake, only to be felled by an Orc arrow while you accustomed yourself to their contours."

The elf glared at Gimli in defeat before graciously accepting the earmuffs. He placed them over his head and they settled snugly into place, with only the pointed tips of his elven ears evident above them. Gimli roared with laughter at the sight of the normally elegant elf sporting the fluffy brown protection.

"A prettier crown for an elven princeling I have yet to see!" gasped the dwarf, shaking with mirth. "'Twould perhaps be best if you did not stand next to me when we engage the Enemy, my friend, for I fear a stray arrow from them may also fell me, so consumed with laughter would I be by the sight of you!"

"I may fell you first myself," muttered Legolas, tearing the earmuffs from his head and handing them back to a grinning Neville who, along with his companions, had been highly amused at the vision of ear-muffed-elf.

Aragorn clapped Legolas lightly on the back. "Nay, my friend. Save your wrath for our foes, for we shall have need of Gimli's axe during battle. You may slay him afterwards."

That remark effectively stopped the dwarf's chuckles and Gimli glared at the ranger in affront. Aragorn ignored him. "What are these, Neville?"

He pointed to a series of large, frond-like plants with jagged spikes at the tips of their leaves that the teenager had also freed from pots and arranged in a dozen rows of five. Their roots were covered in the same damp cloth as those of the Mandrakes.

"They're Flaming Ferns. Extremely dangerous plants. The spikes at the end of their leaves shoot off and embed themselves in anyone or anything they perceive as a danger, injecting the enemy with a combustible poison. It takes about a minute for that to get into the victim's system and then, well, basically, it sets them on fire - from the inside out."

"Helm's hammer!" said Éomer, looking at him in wide-eyed disbelief. "And you cultivate such dangerous plants?"

Neville shrugged. "They're actually pretty rare. Normally you only find them in extreme mountainous regions. Their poison is a natural defence against predators such as mountain goats. Very few wizards would dare to go near them. But I have a rather eccentric uncle who has connections in Switzerland and he was able to get me a few dozen seedlings, which have grown surprisingly well in my greenhouse. I wanted to bring a few back to school with me at Christmas to keep in the greenhouses there - they would've been useful when we fought the Death Eaters - but all our belongings were subject to spot searches by Filch and the Carrows. I'd have never managed to smuggle them in. Still, at least that means we can make use of them now. There are sixty of them there - that's the largest supply anywhere outside of Switzerland - and each plant has about twenty poisoned spikes, so that's roughly twelve hundred orcs taken care of. Unless a few orcs are unlucky enough to get pierced by several spikes at once. Then we'll probably have Middle Earth's ugliest ever fireworks display."

Both Éomer and Théoden looked greatly surprised, but not at the revelation of the Flaming Ferns effectiveness in battle.

"I did not know that Wizards had families," said the younger Rohirrim in confusion.

"They do where we come from," said Molly, who watched Neville through narrowed eyes. "And I would say that I'm surprised your uncle sent you such a dangerous plant, if I didn't suspect it was the same idiot who dangled you from a first-floor window when you were eight just to scare the magic out of you."

Blimey! Was she still annoyed about that?

"Your uncle hung you from a window when you were a _child_?" exclaimed Aragorn, looking absolutely livid.

Neville shot Molly a frown.

"Look, he was only trying to see if I was a wizard or not."

Molly huffed in scorn. "It's a good thing for you that you were, otherwise you would have died when he dropped you!"

"_He dropped you?_" barked the ranger. Gimli was scanning the hall angrily (in the vain hope of finding Neville's unfortunate relative lurking behind a column, so he could cleave him in two with his axe).

"It was an accident!" replied the teenager firmly.

"Accident or nay, your uncle may count himself fortunate that he is not now present or he would know the wrath of Isildur's heir!"

"And that of Gimli, Glóin's son!" declared the dwarf (appearing to be very put-out that his search of the Golden Hall had not produced the elderly gentleman).

"And let us not forget the scorn of the Prince of Mirkwood," added Legolas, incensed at the insult to his friend.

Molly (who was delighted to have so many share her wrath against Great Uncle Algie) nodded in firm approval. "Don't you worry, boys. I'll be having words with him when I get back."

What? Crikey, she'd kill him!

"No, Molly, leave it. It was almost ten years ago now and he never actually meant to hurt me. I don't want you to go barging up to him and giving him a piece of your mind for something that's ancient history!"

"I'm sorry, Neville, dear, but I absolutely cannot ignore such reckless stupidity! He could've killed you!"

"But he didn't kill me, did he? I'm alive and well," Neville said, gazing at her earnestly. "Please, Molly. I love my Uncle Algie and he loves me. He might have been pleased that I turned out to be a wizard, but he still got a fright when he let me go. And he still apologises whenever the subject comes up. I don't want you confronting him about it. It would upset him - and that would upset me."

His pleading tone had the desired effect. The witch's eyes still flashed in anger, but she took a deep breath and nodded in compliance. "If that's what you want, dear, I won't mention a thing. But only because it would upset _you_, mind!"

Her words came as a great relief. "Thanks. Anyway, Gran's already punished him for it, so there's not much you could do that would make him regret it any further."

"Indeed? And what did your grandmother do to punish him, young Wizard?" asked Éomer, who had quickly come to terms with the shocking revelation that Istari could reproduce.

"She hexed his clothes off and kicked him out the house without his wand. He spent two days begging to be let back in until he was arrested by Muggle police - they're non-magic law enforcement - for 'indecent exposure'. That was half an hour after Mrs McAvoy across the street caught him sleeping stark naked in her hydrangea bush. Gran left him in Muggle prison for a week before she got him out. And even then, she made him volunteer to work at the Hideous Hags Appreciation Society for a month. He spent the entire time fighting off the advances of Hilda the Horrible, a woman whose entire body is covered in knobbly, fist-sized warts. She looks a bit like she's covered in bark, actually. Luckily for Uncle Algie, the warts weren't contagious, or he might have resembled an oak himself after she cornered him one Friday afternoon in the Leaky Cauldron and snogged him to within an inch of his life. Gran didn't even feel sorry for him when he came home with half his clothes ripped, complaining that he'd been ravished by a hag. She just said it served him right. Poor Uncle Algie avoids the Leaky at all costs now, just in case Hilda stills harbours a fancy for him and is lying in wait."

"Snogging means kissing," added Molly helpfully.

A wave of laughter erupted.

"'Tis a pity your grandmother did not accompany you both here too, lad, for I would be honoured to make the acquaintance of such a formidable woman!"

The thought of his prim, fastidious grandmother happily accompanying him into battle was enough to make Neville laugh. "I don't think Middle Earth's quite ready for Gran. She can come over a bit strict if you don't know her. But she has a heart of gold, though. Come to think of it, she'd probably give the enemy pause for thought - she's pretty powerful when she's provoked."

"I do not doubt it for an instant," said Aragorn with a smile. "However, we shall soon depart for the Fords of Isen. If you are satisfied with the condition of your impressive weapons, it would be wise to return them to their resting place until necessity demands their presence once more."

"We were almost finished. Another few minutes and I'll have them all packed up."

The teenager was true to his word. Within ten minutes, he and Molly had completed their inventory and split the plants between both their packs so that they each had some at hand to hurl into enemy lines. Neville took the Invisibility cloak from Molly and laid it on the plant container which sat at the top of his knapsack, before joining their companions.

Shortly afterwards, Théoden called for his men to bring supplies from the King's hoard and soon the teenager, Aragorn and Legolas were clothed in armour. Gimli politely refused when the Rohirrim tried to offer him a coat of mail too, stating that his dwarven corslet of rings was better suited to his stature than the longer hauberks of men. He chose instead a small iron cap and a small green shield with the picture of a running white horse, which the King said had belonged to him as a boy.

"I am proud, Lord of the Mark, to bear your device," he said, bowing. "Indeed sooner would I bear a horse than be borne by one. I love my feet better. But, maybe, I shall come yet where I may stand and fight."

"It may well be so," replied Théoden, turning to Molly, who stood in her tweed coat and clutching (to Éomer's confusion) her Cleansweep. "And what of you, White Witch: will you choose no armour for yourself? For though you be possessed of magical arts, the sheer number of our Enemy may weaken even as noble a lady as you."

"Oh, don't worry about me, your Majesty. I'll be perfectly alright - safer than everyone else, in fact. Isn't that right, Neville?" she said, favouring her charge with a sidelong glare that let him know she was still irked at his machinations back in Valinor.

"Er, yeah. That's right. She's as safe as Gringotts, sir," he informed the King, thinking it best to ignore his Guardian's glare. "So, eh, are we off now?"

"There are some small matters of Court that must be dealt with first, young Wizard. Sister-daughter!"

Éowyn stepped forward bearing a goblet of wine which she offered to her uncle. "_Ferthu Théoden hál_! Receive now this cup and drink in happy hour. Health be with thee at thy going and coming!"

Théoden smiled at her and drank from the cup, then she proffered it to the other guests, all who took a ceremonial sip of friendship from it. Neville watched (a little jealously) as her gaze lingered longingly on Aragorn's face.

What was it about the bloke she fancied so much anyway? Okay, he was tall, well built and sickeningly handsome under that beard (Molly had been trying to get him to shave it off ever since they left Fangorn, but the ranger steadfastly refused), but that was just packaging. Neville wasn't exactly hideous - in fact, he was more presentable than, say, an orc. Admittedly, there was an intelligent, regal air about Aragorn that the teenager would never possess. Then again, Neville didn't have to worry about running a country at any point in the future. There was a lot to be said in favour of that. Admittedly, the ranger _was_ altogether more elegant than he was;

but was that really any reason to fancy the bloke?

Probably.

Girls. Why did they always go for the obvious? Really, it was just too predictable for words. If Harry Potter, any of the Weasley boys, or the disgustingly dashing Oliver Wood had committed the faux pas he had at lunch, he bet a thousand Galleons that Théoden's gorgeous niece would have found it charming.

But _him_? Oh, no.

Neville sighed in remembrance, utterly relieved that the brief meal with his new Rohirrim friends was over.

Not that he hadn't enjoyed his food - what he'd managed to consume of it. The sliced meats were hearty and filling, the bread crusty and still warm from the oven. Even the wine wasn't bad.

The wine...

He flushed in embarrassment. That had been the point at which his fantasy of wedded bliss with Dream Girl had collapsed in ruin. Éomer (who'd insisted on sitting next to him) had spent ten minutes grilling him on why he'd called his uncle a cripple (much to Aragorn's amusement) before the impressively built bloke had finally accepted his claim of 'foot in mouth' syndrome. The heir to the Rohirric throne had slapped him heartily on the back with one of his enormous hands afterwards, in a gesture of camaraderie...

...barely thirty seconds after the young wizard had decided it was safe to take a _massive_ bite of his tasty chicken leg.

The half-chewed mass had flown across the table (Legolas had deftly dodged it) and landed smack in the jug of wine the lovely Éowyn had been holding.

Typical, really.

Still, she had been very nice about it (after shooting him a look of extreme disgust) and accepted his awkward apologies graciously enough (at least he thought she accepted them: he hadn't really heard what she'd said over Gimli's and Éomer's loud guffaws). However, his chances of winning her heart were not looking as favourable as they had _before_ lunch.

Never mind. That might not be a bad thing. It would be very unlucky if she fell violently in love with him now, only to have her heart broken if he was slaughtered in battle. And, to be fair, it didn't look like Aragorn was encouraging her either - the ranger looked troubled at her open adoration and didn't offer her so much as a smile.

Suddenly, Neville felt sorry for the young woman. She was obviously smitten with Aragorn, but he knew that his friend was in love with some elf maiden called Arwen (whom he often sang songs about - usually when the teenager was trying to get to sleep). As the lady stepped away from the ranger and offered him the cup next, he smiled at her with as much warmth as he could (without drooling openly - Éomer was eyeing him suspiciously) and took a (rather noisy) sip from it.

"Hope that wasn't the wine from earlier," he joked, trying to elicit a smile. "You know, the one I polluted with half-eaten chicken?"

"Nay. That I gave to the pigs," she replied politely, before moving off to Molly.

He flushed, slightly embarrassed that his attempts to break the ice had failed so miserably.

And who knew pigs drank wine?

Shrugging the moment off, he straightened his back and lifted his chin. It didn't matter that she didn't fancy him. After all, it wasn't as if he could take her back to Yorkshire when his journey in Middle Earth was over, even if she did want to come. He'd just have to save his affection for a dream witch back home.

Deciding to waste no more time mooning over unattainable females, he followed the others outside, sparing Molly's Cleansweep a dubious glance.

"Aren't you sharing a horse with Aragorn?" he whispered, distracting her from Théoden's declaration that Éowyn to be the leader of the remaining Rohirrim in his absence.

"No, dear. We'll have to move quickly if we're to make it to the Fords in time to meet up with Grimbold's men and stop Saruman's army. I don't want to weigh poor Hasufel down when he'll already be carrying Aragorn. I've already told both him and the King that I'll be flying - Théoden thought I was a bit mad at first. He's never heard of a flying broomstick, of course. But Aragorn assured him it was perfectly normal and now he's interested to see the Cleansweep in action. The others will just have to get used to it. Not that I think they'll object if Théoden's happy enough. Anyway, they're much less likely to be hostile now after we took care of that ghastly Grimworm for them."

"S'pose your right," agreed Neville, allowing his gaze to settle on the royal party. "Éowyn doesn't look very happy for someone who's just been named Princess Regent, does she?"

Indeed she didn't. The lady was newly clad in a silver corslet gifted to her by the King when she accepted the charge of leading her people to Dunharrow. In her hand, she held a long, shining sword which caught the Sun's rays and gleamed dangerously. Her gaze settled briefly on Molly during the heated conversation with her uncle; her normally pale cheeks slightly flushed and eyes flashing.

Molly shook her head. "From what I understood from her brother, Éowyn's quite handy with a sword. A Shieldmaiden, in fact. She's a bit headstrong and no doubt wants to follow us, but it doesn't look like either her uncle or her brother are having it. Can't say I blame them. They've suffered enough without having to bear the thought of losing her too, even if she can fight as well as any man. Her poor, dead cousin taught her to fight, you know - or at least that's what Éomer told me. Such a lovely name for a boy: Éomer. I wonder if I could persuade Bill and Fleur to christen their firstborn son that. Éomer William Weasley. It has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?"

Erm, no.

"Yeah. Sounds great," he replied (lying smoothly - for a change).

She beamed. "I thought you'd like it."

Content with his answer, she left him to follow the others down the stone stairs and mounted her broom, flying off the ledge and scaring the life out of the unsuspecting locals.

"Observe: the White Witch _flies_!" cried Éomer in disbelief as all eyes followed her flight over the ledge.

"A mighty feat, Lady Molly!" called Théoden, looking highly impressed. "Never had I thought to see such a thing in all the ages of Elves or Men!"

"Oh, do you like it?" said Molly, hovering beside the Rohirrim, who had all paused in wonder at the sight. "It's not one of the faster brooms you know, but then, they're very expensive. Still, my old Cleansweep has never let me down yet and I'm pleased at the opportunity to be able to give it another airing instead of letting it moulder unused in the garden shed."

She gave it a fond pat, then turned around in mid-air and hovered beside them as they resumed their descent. The line of warriors moved briskly down the stairs, then down the hill to the open gates. A host of over a thousand men and boys awaited their monarch, clad in shining mail and armed with spears and shields. Neville heard them shouting loudly and cheerfully as Théoden approached.

Blimey, they were keen, weren't they? Not that he could blame them. A familiar sort of current raced through his own body at the thought of engaging the enemy in battle. It was the same current that had charged through him when he'd tumbled out of the secret passageway and into the Hog's Head to find Harry, Ron and Hermione with Aberforth Dumbledore.

When he'd realised the final battle to save his own world was upon him.

And now he was here in Middle Earth, about to help others realise the same victory he and his friends had known at Hogwarts. Neville looked at the keen, youthful faces of the Rohirrim forces. Hopefully, they would achieve that same victory without losing too many of their own noble people. Not that he was naïve enough to believe there would be no casualties - the very number of orcs awaiting them would dictate that the numbers of wounded or dead might be heavy.

In fact, come to think of it, they were outnumbered roughly ten to one at the moment.

Concerned, he sought out Éomer. "How many of your people are already at the Fords?"

The blond man answered immediately. "Two thousand or a little more."

"So when we get there, there'll be three thousand. That's just over three orcs each. Which are better odds than I thought, yet still a bit of a tall order. Is there any way you could round up more?"

"Alas, but we lost many at the First Battle of the Fords of Isen over a week since. Gamling keeps watch at Helm's Deep with perhaps a few hundred spears and, as that is our last line of defence should the Enemy prevail at the Fords, we cannot afford to relieve him of those Men."

The news was not exactly encouraging. However, he mustered a reassuring smile for the brave Rohirrim.

"Never mind. We've still got magic on our side. And unless Saruman's leading his army through the Gap of Rohan in person - which I doubt, 'cos I've seen the git in action - the orcs don't. Plus, our little friends here should take care of a good deal of them."

He patted his knapsack, which was slung over one shoulder.

"I'll use my cloak to penetrate their defences and chuck the Mandrakes in at their rear half. With the Light of Varda protecting her, Molly will be able to fly over them and drop some of her plants nearer the front. Aragorn and Legolas are deadly with their bows; Gimli will probably throw himself off his horse so he can get to the orcs before anyone else does, and then there'll be three thousand massive Rohirrim, baying for the blood of a dark wizard's servants. Let's face it: the orcs probably don't stand a chance. They'll never know what hit them."

Which was technically correct. He'd bet none of them had ever heard of Flaming Ferns or Mandrakes before, let alone seen (or heard) one.

"I am not sure that I understand your magic or the customs from whence you hail, son of Longbottom. I know that neither you nor the Lady Molly hail from Valinor, for your arts could not be more removed from those of Gandalf the Grey or our enemy Saruman," said Éomer, stopping him from leaving by placing a massive hand on the wizard's shoulder and staring at him intently. "But know this: ever will you and your friends be honoured by Rohan's people, both for the service you have already shown us and for the one which you are about to undertake on our behalf. If this battle spares me, my children and my children's children shall sing of these days for many years to come, my young friend."

Neville was a little embarrassed at his high regard, but also touched by the sentiment. "Erm, thanks. That's nice. But if we're friends, you really should call me 'Neville'. As opposed to 'son of Longbottom', that is."

Éomer grinned. "Then let it be thus. Now, if you will excuse me, Neville, I must speak with Gimli and see if I cannot persuade him to make peace with me and share my horse. Háma holds your own faithful Fæleu yonder and she awaits you eagerly."

He clapped the teenager heartily on the back (Neville almost choked - again) and strode off to pester the dwarf. The teenager's gaze wandered a few feet to his left and he saw the forbidding figure of Háma holding his 'faithful' nag's reins.

Great. Why hadn't Grima the Git chosen her? He had successfully managed to forget about her for an hour or two and now he'd have to climb back on the ruddy mule. Knowing his luck, she'd toss him in the Snowbourn in front of a thousand experienced riders, before galloping off into the distance without him. He'd be the laughing stock of Rohan!

Clenching his teeth, Neville marched towards his horse and accepted Háma's helping hand to mount her.

"Thanks."

"You are most welcome, young Wizard," replied the Doorwarden, looking as fierce as ever. "And you may also be pleased to know that I have forgiven your little deception earlier regarding your staff."

Neville flushed. "You mean my wand. We call our staffs 'wands'. So I wasn't lying when I said I didn't have a staff - well, not really. Sorry."

The man grinned and thumped him soundly on the calf (making Fæleu paw nervously at the ground). "'Tis of no matter. I would gladly bear Théoden King's wrath for not performing my duties properly if it meant he was his true self once more. Ride well, young deceiver!"

With that, Háma strolled off leaving him feeling more than a little bit guilty for getting the guard into trouble.

Oh, well. At least he had his King back and was merrily riding off to his (probable) doom at Théoden's side.

A sudden cry among the host made Neville look up, and he saw Molly whizzing overhead to the amazement of a thousand pairs of eyes.

"Behold the White Witch, Shieldwife of Rohan!" cried Théoden, successfully manipulating his people's alarmed murmurings.

Molly waved cheerily down at the army as they echoed their King's seal of approval, throwing encouraging smiles at some of the younger faces she circled.

"This day sees the return of your King," continued Théoden, speaking to the now silent masses at large. "It also see the arrival of Aragorn, Isildur's heir of legend. With him, this noble Man brings Legolas, Prince among Elves, and Gimli, Lord of Dwarves, to aid in our fight. These are hardy warriors, skilled in battle and stout of heart. Already have they done me great service this day, both in their unmasking of the traitor Grima Wormtongue, and in delivering the news that our Enemy would strike at us like a thief in the dark."

A great thudding of long spears on the ground heralded this announcement. "Hail Aragorn, Isildur's heir! Hail Legolas, Prince of Elves! Hail Gimli, Lord of Dwarves!"

Théoden held up his hand to silence them after a few seconds. "Above you, flies the White Witch, the Lady Molly, on her wondrous..."

The King faltered, temporarily lost for a word to describe the Cleansweep, before saying:

"...wooden steed."

Neville clutched at his nose to stifle a snort.

"It was she who cured your King of his illness, even though - under the evil spell of Wormtongue - I had earlier doomed her to the death of an Enemy. She has already been victorious in battle against the traitor Wizard, Saruman. Let her example of bravery and purity of heart be an example for all of us!"

More thuds. "Hail the White Witch, Defender of the King!"

Although she hovered a few feet overhead, he could still see Molly blush.

"And here is another who has fought the fallen Istar: Neville Longbottom, Wizard of Awes, slayer of Nazgûl..."

A gasp of shock rose from the crowd as everyone watched him in amazement and Neville cringed. Did Aragorn have to tell _everyone_ he met about that? He could only hope the ranger hadn't described in too much detail how he'd screamed like a girl after being stabbed.

"...and defender of the Light. He is a Wizard of great power! I saw with my own eyes as he disappeared from one end of the Golden Hall, only to reappear a second later at another to save my sister-daughter - your own Lady Éowyn - from the foul clutches of Wormtongue."

"Hail the Wizard of Awes, Nazgûl's Bane!"

Crikey! This was embarrassing. They were all looking at him like he was Harry Potter or something. How did his fellow Gryffindor put up with this nonsense on a regular basis?

Neville offered the crowd a weak smile and a half-hearted wave, wishing that Théoden would hurry up and finish so he could concentrate on bribing Fæleu not to chuck him off her back and ruin their high opinion of him.

"And now, Men of Rohan: with these new friends as our allies, we ride forth to counter the boldness of Isengard with a strike of our own. Let the Enemy answer in blood for all their affronts to our people! Let them answer in agony for the loss of Théodred Prince! Let them answer in death for the betrayal of their fallen Master! To War, Eorlingas! To War!"

A thousand voices rang out in fervent, bloodthirsty approval.

"To War!"

And with that, the great host thundered after Théoden and his noble company on the start of their journey to the Fords of Isen. Billowing clouds of dust rose in the wake of their galloping steeds, which occluded from their sight the lone figure standing outside the Great Hall that gazed after them in longing.

**XXX**

Five hours later, the great host of riders came to a halt forty leagues into the Westemnet. Night was closing in around them and Théoden deemed it unwise to travel farther in the darkness, despite the urgency of their mission. The riders made camp in a great circle, though no fires were built in case they attracted the attention of spies. A guard was set around the perimeter of the camp as the Four Hunters and Molly drew to a halt and dismounted.

Théoden joined them as they picketed their horses and unloaded their bedrolls. Éomer and Háma followed in his wake.

"I can take watch for a few hours, sir" Neville offered, when their host stopped to speak with Aragorn.

"A generous offer, young Neville, and I thank you for it. But my Men will be happy to undertake this duty in your stead. You and your friends have already two long days of riding behind you. I believe you all deserve whatever rest this night may afford us. Take to your bedroll while you can, for we will need the Wizard of Awes at his full strength when dawn breaks."

Grateful for the reprieve, the teenager nodded and followed Molly, Legolas and Gimli to a small clearing amidst the other weary riders. The wind blew at his hair and rustled the long grass as he settled the bedroll. He loosened the shiny new scabbard from his waist and dropped the Sword of Gryffindor on the grass next to it.

"I think I'll put the tent up tonight," said Molly. "You can take the other bedroom, if you like. It'll be a nice change to sleep on a mattress instead of the ground."

Neville debated it briefly before refusing. "No, thanks. I'm too tired to bother with all the fuss. I'll be fine on the ground. I'll give you a hand to set it up, though."

"That's alright dear. I'll manage perfectly well on my own. How's your ankle?"

"It's fine. Your lotion and the bandage has stopped the swelling nicely. I can hardly feel a thing," he replied as he dropped his knapsack next to his sword.

"I'm glad to hear it. Well, I think I'll pop over and see if the King wants to use the extra tent. After all, he's had a very trying day and could probably use the comfort of a nice soft mattress. Sleep well, dear."

She gave him a wonderful motherly hug and walked off to find the King, leaving him to grin at her back as he imagined Théoden's reaction to a Wizarding tent complete with kitchen, bath and two bedrooms. He was still grinning as he flopped onto his bedroll and bid Legolas and Gimli goodnight. Finally, blissfully his eyelids drooped and he fell into sleep.

Into the most peculiar dream he'd ever had in his life …

Neville sat at the familiar wooden table in Lothlórien where he and the Fellowship had shared their meals, patiently awaiting the appearance of his new dwarven acquaintance. Gimli was keen to instruct him on the proper method of brandishing a wand and he was anxious for the lesson to begin.

"Good morning, my son," said a warm voice.

He swivelled his head to see Saruman of Many Colours walking arm-in-arm with Gran towards Galadriel's talan.

"Oh, hello."

"It's 'Good morning, Grandfather', not 'Oh, hello'!" barked Gran. "Haven't I taught you any manners?"

"Er, yes. Sorry. Good morning, Grandfather."

The green, yellow and orange man smiled, revealing a perfect set of pearly whites.

Which explained why Gran had married the bloke.

_Married the bloke?_

Hmm. That was a bit odd. He didn't remember any wedding. And wasn't Saruman supposed to be his enemy? But how could he be if he was his grandfather? And why hadn't he been invited to the wedding? Perhaps they had eloped to Gretna Green without telling him, to enhance the romance of it all?

That must be it.

Satisfied that he had solved the mystery, he waved them goodbye as they walked off into the distance (and hastily averted his eyes when he saw a large green hand resting lightly on Gran's bottom).

A few minutes later...

"Fair morn, young Wizard!" cried a deep baritone behind him.

Neville turned to see Boromir of Gondor strolling past with Professor Dumbledore. He shot out of his seat and gaped at his old headmaster. Wasn't he dead? In fact - weren't they both dead?

"Won't you join us for a glass of wine, Neville?" enquired Dumbledore, whose blue orbs twinkled merrily at him from over the half-moon spectacles perched on his nose.

"You...you...you can't drink wine," spluttered the teenager.

The men paused to stare at him in amusement.

"Whyever not, Neville?" asked the headmaster curiously.

"Well, 'cos your dead. And so's Boromir."

Dumbledore and Boromir exchanged an amused glance.

"If that is true, then Boromir is the healthiest looking corpse I have ever seen."

"And Albus is the healthiest one _I_ have ever laid eyes on!" agreed the Gondorian with a chuckle. "Perhaps our young friend is ill with a fever of the brain?"

"I think that must be it," conceded the older man. "Fortunately, I have just the right medicine to cure him!"

Reaching into his long blue robe (decorated with spinning celestial bodies), Dumbledore pulled out a fistful of small yellow objects and pressed them into Neville's hand. "Take one a day for the next ten thousand years and you'll soon be as right as rain. Good day, my boy. Give my regards to Trevor!"

The two men walked off in the same direction as Granddad Saruman and his lovely bride, leaving the young wizard to stare blankly at the oval objects he held.

Hmm. Dumbledore's cure for brain fever was a sherbet lemon? Could that be right?

Shrugging, Neville popped one into his mouth and retook his seat just as another couple emerged from the trees ahead.

"Hello, Neville Longbottom Leaf! Aren't you joining us for a glass of wine with Galadriel and the others?"

"Er, thanks Merry. But I'm waiting for Gimli."

"No doubt to brush up on your lamentable Defence Against the Dark Arts skills," sneered Severus Snape (who was as surprisingly - and lamentably - alive as his former headmaster). "Though why Professor Gimli should waste his time on a lost cause I will never know."

The teenager balled his fists in anger. "Sod off, you greasy git, before I get him to hack your ugly head off."

"Any more of your cheek, Longbottom, and you'll be doing a month's detention in the dungeons of Orthanc. I have heard from a very reliable source that there are some highly suspicious biological stains on the walls that need removing."

The man stalked past him with his black cloak billowing in his wake and a (for some unknown reason) very eager Merry Brandybuck running at full speed to keep up with his new friend's long strides.

_Git._

What was he doing here anyway? Wasn't he supposed to be dead too? And why had Galadriel invited him over for a drink?

Honestly, the standards of the elven haven weren't half slipping.

Too annoyed by Snape's presence to hang around any longer, Neville picked himself up and walked towards the archery field, knowing that the dwarf would probably look for him there. He stormed across the glade and through the Mellyrn trees, but instead of exiting into the large field, he found himself entering the Gryffindor common room. A roaring fire was burning in the hearth and two empty, red-and-gold armchairs were arranged before it.

"Welcome, mortal Wizard."

Neville jumped in surprise, scanning the room for other signs of life, but there was no one there. The voice, however had been familiar. In fact, it sounded just like Galadriel.

No sooner had the thought popped into his mind when the graceful elleth appeared in one of the chairs.

Blimey! That was bizarre.

"Er, hello, Lady Galadriel," he said, taking the seat opposite her. "Aren't you supposed to be throwing a party?"

She regarded him in some confusion. "I do not believe I have ever 'thrown' a party in the entire course of my life."

"I mean, I thought you were having guests over for a glass of wine."

"Ah, I see." She smiled softly. "Your manner of speech is ever peculiar, but not unpleasant for it. Nay, I have but one guest this eve and that guest is yourself."

She looked around the cosy room with its moving portraits on bright red walls and thick woollen carpet. The windows on the left were closed, but the curtains were open and he saw it was dark outside. Snow fell across the grounds of Hogwarts, but it was snug and warm by the fire.

"'Tis an interesting chamber."

"Yeah, it's the Gryffindor common room. It's where people from my house come to socialise after lessons, but before bedtime."

"Ah, your place of learning. How charming it is."

"Thanks. Er, I hope you don't mind me asking, but what are you doing here?"

"You are not pleased to see me?" she asked, watching him carefully.

Mortified that he may have offended her, the teenager shook his head furiously. "No! That's not what I meant. It's just…well, this is _my_ world. You're not supposed to be here. Actually, come to think of it, I don't think I'm supposed to be here either. I'm supposed to be in yours. What's going on?"

"Peace, Neville Longbottom. All is well. You are merely lost in a dream. 'Tis the reason I am able to speak with you."

What did that mean?

"Hold on; aren't you part of my dream?"

"Yes and no."

Well that wasn't much help.

Galadriel watched him puzzling over her answer. "You lie in slumber in a place - I know not where - surrounded by friends old and new. For the present, you know enough peace for me to visit you."

"But how can you visit me? You're in Lothlórien, aren't you."

"I am. In truth, you hear only my voice, but your mind knows it for my own and has provided the illusion of a form to house it for as long as I remain."

Which was handy, he supposed.

"Though I cannot remain long, mortal Wizard. I come only to bid you give news to your friends. I had hoped to send another with these tidings, but he has been delayed elsewhere and may not arrive until it is too late."

Another? She was sending someone to see them? Oh, great - knowing his luck, it was probably Haldir.

"Erm, alright then. But you should know, my memory's not exactly the best - even when I'm awake. Expecting me to be able to recall a message from a dream might be asking a lot."

"I have faith in you, my young friend. You will not forget what is important. Now, listen carefully. This is what you must tell Aragorn:

_Where now are the Dunedain, Elessar, Elessar?_

_Why do thy kinsfolk wander afar?_

_Near is the hour when the Lost should come forth,_

_And the Grey Company ride from the north._

_But dark is the path appointed for thee:_

_The Dead watch the road that leads to the Sea."_

A poem? She wanted him to recite poetry to a bloke? Still, it could have been worse - it could've been a love poem...

"Have you committed it to memory, Neville Longbottom?" enquired Galadriel patiently.

"Yes. Wandering Dúnedain; lost coming forth; people riding from the north; Aragorn needs a torch; dead folk watching the sea. Got it."

She smiled mysteriously. "And for Legolas, I have this message..."

Another one? Bloody hell!

"_Legolas Greenleaf long under tree_

_In joy thou hast lived. Beware of the Sea!_

_If thou hearest the cry of the gull on the shore,_

_Thy heart shall then rest in the forest no more."_

Hmm. That was a bit grim.

"So I've to tell Legolas to avoid the sea at all costs or he'll drown?"

"Nay, young one. He will never find peace in Middle Earth again if he hears the gull's cry. Instead, he will know years of torment here for as long as he denies his fate."

"Right. I'll tell him to stay clear of the sea."

"That is not what I meant. Whether Legolas avoids it or nay must be his own choice. You must merely relay the message as is and allow him to choose for himself."

"But I can't let him spent the next thousand years in torment! He's my friend!"

She favoured him with an intense look so reminiscent of Gran, that he gulped. "Eh, alright then. I'll tell him."

"You have my gratitude. To Gimli son of Glóin, give his Lady's greetings and say: Lockbearer, wherever thou goest, my thoughts go with thee. But have a care to lay thine axe to the right neck."

Ah. Well, that was straightforward enough - tell the axe-wielding ladies' man not to hit the wrong target.

"Got it," said Neville with a grin.

"To Molly, daughter of Prewett, say this: quarrel not over what thee already possess, for confrontation may see thee both lose it forever."

That was cryptic. What would Molly be quarrelling over and with whom? What did she have that someone would fight her for? His brow furrowed in confusion and he saw Galadriel open her mouth to say more. Crikey! Maybe he should be writing all this down? If only he had a quill…

"And lastly for you, who are not least in my thoughts, mortal Wizard..."

Oh, well. He shouldn't be surprised really, she had already given him messages for everyone else.

"...I bring you words of warning..."

Well that was just typical, wasn't it?

"...listen closely:

_Beware of the crimson that flowers the field,_

_Where courage and honour their lifeblood will yield._

_Beware of the Shadow that falls from the sky,_

_Let evil not bring thee to dark places high._

_._

_If malice doth take thee for evil intent,_

_Despair not, for aid thee will surely be sent._

_If foulness engulfs thee and fear holds thee still,_

_Another may wield thine own weapon to kill."_

Neville's jaw dropped.

_Bloody hell!_

Why couldn't he have gotten a nice, warm, fuzzy message like Gimli? Or a warning not to visit the Middle Earth version of Blackpool beach, like Legolas? In fact, he would even have settled for the dark road Aragorn was going to take past a horde of dead holidaymakers bent a visit to the seaside.

But this?

"What does it mean? Am I supposed to avoid nightfall? How am I supposed to do that? And how can I avoid blood on a battlefield? And what's that bit about despair and fouln..."

She held up a lily-white hand. "I cannot tell you what I do not know."

"But you must know! You just made up a flowery poem about it. Well, not exactly flowery. A bit creepy, actually. But surely you know what you're talking about?"

"Alas, I do not know all. My warning is given to you with the little knowledge I have, for only in glimpses will the Mirror reveal the mysteries of the future and even then, they are not carved in stone. Remember your own experience with the Mirror and use both that and this warning to guide you when the time comes. And now, I must depart, for soon you will rouse from your rest and our connection will be broken. Fare thee well, mortal Wizard. Do not forget to share my news with your companions."

"No, don't go!" cried Neville, who still had a million other questions on the tip of his tongue. "You haven't explained that last line. Galadriel? Galadriel!"

It was no use. Both the voice and the illusion of her body that his imagination had provided were gone and the Gryffindor common room was flickering out of existence before his eyes. Darkness was closing in...

**XXX**

At dawn, horns roused the company and Neville awoke slightly confused. He'd had the maddest dream of his life about Gran marrying Saruman. And his least favourite Potions professor had been in it too, he was sure of that.

Ugh. Was he to be reduced to dreaming about Snape? That was just cruel.

And there was something else, too. A series of rhythmic chants had disturbed the latter part of his sleep, repeating over and over, like a Celestina Warbeck record caught in a loop on Gran's gramophone. But for the life of him, he couldn't remember what the words were.

"I see you are now truly awake, Neville. Are you well?"

Legolas stood before him, looking strangely concerned, so he pulled himself up and rubbed the tiredness from his eyes. "Yeah, I'm fine. Why? Is something wrong?"

"For the last half hour you have been talking whilst you rested. Uttering the same words over and over again. Riddles, I thought them at first, until I realised that they were not."

"You were listening? What did I say?"

"Come, mellon nin," said the elf as he crouched to help Neville gather his belongings. "I will reveal to you what you spoke of when we have gathered Aragorn, Gimli and the Lady Molly to us, for I believe they should hear this also."

That made him frown. What had he been talking about in his sleep that would interest them?

Oh no! He hadn't been fantasising about girls, had he? Perhaps declaring his affection for Éowyn or Varda (a married woman) in his sleep? It wasn't unknown for him to do that. Gran had caught him once, when she'd come in to wake him up on his fifteenth birthday and found him spouting poetry about Ginny Weasley. Talk about embarrassing. Not as embarrassing as the time six months prior to that, when she'd caught him practising his snogging technique on a pillow, but still. And now Legolas was about to entertain all his friends with another embarrassing...

Wait a minute.

Poetry?

Hadn't he been dreaming about poetry? And, if he wasn't mistaken, there was nothing remotely romantic about it...

There was no time for further thought as he followed the blond elf through the sea of Rohirrim springing from the grass, and across the field towards their friends. Aragorn and Gimli stood watching Molly dismantle her tent.

"'Tis a wondrous thing, Lady Molly! That such a creation be larger inside than outside. Your magic never fails to astound me!"

"Oh, I'm so glad you liked it, dear. We don't have our own and I had to borrow this one a while ago. I'm glad you and Aragorn enjoyed sleeping on a real bed for a change, even if they were only bunk beds. Merlin knows you deserve it after all the running and riding you've done."

"And such beds they were! Ah, Legolas! You did not see the wondrous tent. Beds upon beds, I tell you. And space to wash and cook!"

"Fair morn to you, Gimli. I am pleased that you knew the comfort of a softer resting place yester eve," said Legolas, unable to stop a smile spreading over his face at the dwarf's enthusiasm.

"Neville! Legolas! Good morning. I'm just about to make a quick breakfast, though it won't be much because we're leaving as soon as everyone's ready. How does tea and toast with a little strawberry jam sound, hmm? I've got plenty left in my bag, though not enough for a thousand, unfortunately."

Neville grinned. She looked genuinely upset at not being able to feed the entire army.

"I think they'll probably have a few things with them, Molly. Enough to survive until we can get to the fords, anyway."

And after that, who knew? There might not be enough of them left to worry about where the next meal was coming from.

Shrugging the thought off, he helped the witch pack the tent (Gimli was sorry to see it disappear into her knapsack) and pulled several mugs out of his own to fill with tea, adding another two as Théoden and Éomer joined them. Before long, all seven were gathered with their small meal and Legolas related what Neville had been saying in his sleep. The news astonished them all and brought the shadowy fragments of his dream back to the young wizard.

"That's really weird. I thought it was just a mad dream, but yeah, I do remember sitting with Galadriel in the Gryffindor common room. How is it that she could talk to me in my sleep, though?"

"I know not. Has your family the gift of foresight?" asked Aragorn.

"I wish we had. Things could've been dif... Never mind. No, we don't."

"Perhaps it's because some of your magical signature is still in Lothlórien?" suggested Molly.

"You mean the tree? How does that explain it?"

"Well, she is using her elf magic to keep it that lovely shade of pink..."

He blushed as three males sniggered and another two eyed him dubiously. "It was an accident," he informed the Rohirrim.

"...and she can speak to the trees herself. The two types of magic must have melded somehow to allow her to speak to you as well. Although, it must be rather limited if she can only reach you while you sleep."

Thank goodness for that. The last thing he needed was Galadriel popping into his head for a chat when he was trying to fight the minions of Saruman. And if all she had to share with him were dire warnings of foulness and malice, he could really do without the elleth's presence (no matter how gorgeous she was).

"I was a bit anxious about forgetting everything she told me, so I must've kept repeating it over and over to try and remember it all."

"Then it is a good thing I decided not to share the tent with our friends and kept you company on the field instead, for I heard everything you said that you may not have recalled upon regaining alertness," said Legolas.

"And does everyone know what their messages mean? Legolas' and Gimli's were more or less clear, but yours was a bit dodgy Aragorn. Not to mention mine and Molly's."

But Aragorn was not giving much away. "No doubt they will become clearer to us in time, and most likely when we have the greatest need of them. Do not allow them to consume you with doubt at present, for we have not the time to spare for such a luxury. We must ready ourselves for battle and will need all our strength for that alone."

"Well said, Aragorn. Let us take leave of this place now and ride to the aid of Grimbold and Elfhelm. There will be time for reflecting on our dreams after we have vanquished the Enemy back from our borders," declared Théoden, rising and beckoning for his horse.

**XXX**

Within another half an hour, the entire host was riding north across the Westemnet. The day was clear and surprisingly warm for the beginning of March. Neville was soon sweating underneath his chunky jumper, heavy hauberk and elven cloak, but there was no time to stop and take something off (even if Fæleu did decide to oblige him by slowing down. So far, the nag had behaved herself, but that was probably because there was no room among a thousand other horses to chuck him off, and he didn't fancy giving her an opening just so he could cool down).

Ahead, he saw Aragorn lean over to speak with Legolas. The elf peered into the distant north-west for a few seconds before answering him. Neville urged his horse to a faster pace and drew up beside Éomer and Gimli on Legolas' left.

"What did you see, Legolas?"

"I saw a great darkness with many moving shapes far away upon the bank of the river, but what they are I cannot tell. It is not mist or cloud that defeats my eyes: there is a veiling shadow that some power lays upon the land, and it marches slowly down stream. It is as if the twilight under endless trees were flowing downwards from the hills."

"Well that's got to be the orc army. But if you can see them from here…"

Oh, no!

"…that means they've breeched the Gap of Rohan already!" exclaimed the teenager in dismay.

"There are many miles between us and them. We may not yet be too late to come to our allies' aid."

It was a little comfort, but there wasn't much he could say in reply. Gripping his wand tightly, Neville resisted the urge to comment further and concentrated on getting to the Fords of Isen as fast as his miserable nag could carry him.

For many hours the company rode north. Dark clouds began to billow overhead, overtaking them and making it difficult to see Molly on her broom. She flew ahead to scout a little while the light lasted and they rode on, ever northwards to reach their goal.

The Sun sank in the west, its dying rays tipping the riders' spears blood-red as it bid them goodnight. Moments later, Molly flew back by the light of her wand and hovered before the King.

"There's a rider coming from the north-west, your Majesty! I think he's one of your men; he's got similar armour and long blond hair. But he looks exhausted. He must be riding with news from the Fords of Isen."

"Then let us ride out to meet him and hear whether they are good or ill tidings he brings," declared Théoden, nodding his thanks.

They only had to ride a few minutes more before the King held up his hand for everyone to stop. A black speck rode towards them and everyone waited with bated breath to hear what he had to say. The man drew up his horse next to the head of the company and dismounted. Molly had been correct: the poor bloke looked knackered. His cloak was dusty, his helmet dented and he had to stand for a while, gasping heavily, to catch his breath. Even the poor horse he had ridden looked close to collapse. Finally, the stranger straightened himself and walked the few steps to the company leaders.

"Is Éomer here?" he wheezed. "You come at last, but too late, and with too little strength. Things have gone evilly since Théodred fell. We were driven back yesterday over the Isen and with great loss; many perished at the crossing. Then at night fresh forces came over the river against our camp. And fell they were! But not all came with intent to slay us. Nay; many surged as if running from a horror greater than even themselves! I can scarce imagine what may be worse than the sight of a sea of Orcs flooding the plains of our fair lands, but it cannot be good. They were screaming and yelling in terror, making such a sound as to chill the blood in our veins! Where is Éomer? I must relay my news to him!"

"What mean you; screaming and yelling in terror?" demanded Théoden, emerging from his position behind Háma. The soldier's words had caused a rumbling of whispers amid those nearest him. "Come, stand before me Ceorl. I am here. The last host of the Eorlingas has ridden forth. It will not return without battle."

Ceorl's face lit with joy and wonder. He drew himself up, then knelt, offering his notched sword to the King. "Command me, lord. And pardon me! I thought..."

"You thought I remained in Meduseld bent like an old tree under winter snow. So it was when you rode to war. But a west wind has shaken the boughs," said Théoden without accusation.

"I see that now, lord. And it is a joy to know the wind blows yet in favour of my King!"

"I thank you for the fair words, Ceorl. But tell me now of the Orc forces; you said they ran from unknown horror?"

"Indeed, sire. The main body of Saruman's army has successfully crossed the Isen, despite heavy resistance from the forces of Grimbold and Elfhelm both. Erkenbrand of Westfold has drawn off those men he could gather and ordered them towards his fastness in Helm's Deep. But he remains at the Fords, facing the horror that made several hundred Orcs and Dunlanders alike flee the greater force of their own company! I saw grown men with eyes rolling in their sockets as they rushed passed, so possessed of fear were they! And many Orcs slew their own kind in their determination to escape their own ranks. A wild hillman of Dunland, dying from the loss of blood that leaked where his right arm once was, collapsed at my very feet, though none of our soldiers had engaged him in battle. He said a mighty Sorceress, wicked and foul, shadows their flank. She set flaming rocks upon their numbers and crushed them, burned them in their dozens!"

"A sorceress?" queried Neville urgently, sharing a look with Molly. "Did you get a look at her?"

Ceorl, too tired to notice who spoke, shook his head. "Nay. But he said there is another with her - a servant most foul who is invisible to all eyes and delights in slaying innocents where they stand. He hacked many to death before they crossed the river."

"Innocents? Orcs and their allies are not 'innocents', regardless of the claims of a dying man," spat the King in disgust.

Neville wasn't listening. His mind was whirling and racing over all the information he had read at Varda's hall in Valinor. In none of the many parchments he read had he made note of a powerful sorceress. "Molly, did you read anything about a sorceress back at Varda's?"

The red-haired witch was sporting her own look of confusion. "No, dear. Perhaps it was someone they hadn't heard of. They never told us about Grimworm."

"Yeah, but he wasn't really a sorcerer, just a Muggle with a few tricks up his sleeve. This woman can shoot burning rocks into a teeming mass of people. And she has an invisible accomplice - a genuine sorcerer, perhaps? If Saruman's armies haven't heard of either of them, then it's a fair bet the mental git himself doesn't know them."

"He certainly made no mention of them when I eavesdropped on him back in Fangorn forest."

"Aragorn, Legolas: have you ever heard of them?"

"Nay," replied the ranger with a frown. "We are as surprised as you. It would have been possible at first to mistake them for the Blue Wizards come to our aid - but for the presence of the female. There are no Sorceresses or female Istari in all Middle Earth, except the Lady Molly. Which means we may have a problem."

"Exactly. We don't know her, you don't know her, the enemy has never heard of her: so who is she? Who is her invisible friend? And whose side are they on?"

"If she has attacked our Enemy, then perhaps we may call her friend?" suggested Éomer, looking heartened at the thought of another powerful ally, despite the ill news of the lost battle at the Fords of Isen.

Gimli agreed. "Indeed. It seems we have the aid of another Witch and Wizard. Are you certain you and the Lady Molly came alone from the Halls of Ilmarin, lad?"

Molly answered first. "Of course we did. We would've noticed if we hadn't and the Valar didn't mention anything about sending reinforcements after us. It took enough out of poor Varda just to get us here."

Well, that ruled out the possibility of one or two of his friends having popped along for the ride, Neville decided. Varda couldn't possibly have given any more of her Light to another traveller: if she had yanked in Harry and Ginny, or Ron and Hermione, he knew the boys would not have allowed the girls to come along without similar protection to that enjoyed by Molly (although Ginny would probably have Bat-Bogied Harry for having a hero complex and Hermione would have read Ron the riot act for just being a plain old chauvinist pig).

He spoke his next thoughts aloud to the others.

"Whoever they are, we don't know what their intentions are. They might have struck out at our enemies, but Ceorl couldn't hang around long enough to see if they left his comrades unharmed."

"Wise words, young Wizard," said Théoden, who had been silent during their debate. "We may hope for the best, but we should expect the worst and make suitable preparations. One thing is clear: the Fords of Isen are lost to us. We must now make for Helm's Deep, for we still have the dark army of Saruman to contend with. If these magical strangers are following the Orcs, no doubt we shall make their acquaintance there and may better judge their intent. But as troubling as the news of their appearance is, we have at least one thing in our favour: we know of them, but they do not know of us - and they are not yet aware that we have the aid of a Wizard and Witch of our own. If their aim is to befriend us, we may welcome it with open arms. But if their aim is to destroy..."

"Then me and Molly will have to take care of them once and for all," finished the teenager darkly.

"Indeed." The King beckoned to a figure behind him. "Give Ceorl a fresh horse and guide his other at careful pace behind you."

"Yes, lord." The rider left to carry out his liege's command.

"Háma?"

"My lord?"

"Take six of the swiftest riders and go with stealth to the Fords. Seek out Erkenbrand, if he lives yet, and gain knowledge of our mysterious visitors. Bring him and any of our forces you find hale and well to the Deeping Coomb. By then we shall know better the intent of the strangers and, if it is ill, we will have need of the extra spears."

The huge blond straightened in his saddle and nodded firmly. "It shall be as you command, lord." He turned his mount and rode a few metres down the ranks, pointing at several men and gathering them to him before issuing his orders and riding past the remaining host.

"Éomer, let it be known to all that we ride now for Helm's Deep," said the King to his nephew. Neville shuffled his (still surprisingly well-behaved) nag out the other man's way to let him carry out his commander's orders, watching as he rode off with Gimli clinging tightly to his back.

"And you, Neville Longbottom, Molly Weasley: do you believe that that you will be equal to the task of battling this Sorcerer and Sorceress, as well as the hordes of Isengard?"

Théoden, Aragorn and Legolas watched them intently, but neither of the two were the least bit offended at the impertinent question. In fact, Molly had a downright feral glint in her eye.

"I'm a grieving mother with a score to settle and I'm not particularly fussy about the target I hit, as long as they're enemies. If either of them so much as blink at me the wrong way, they're history!" she declared fervently.

Bloody hell! She meant business! And the men approved - they were grinning from ear to ear after her passionate declaration.

"Same goes for me," Neville stated boldly. "I've fought in a war before - and I wasn't too bad at it, if I do say so myself. I'm more than ready to do it again. That's why I came here. I'll be happy to hex the collective arse of anyone who threatens my friends; orc or otherwise."

"_Language_, dear!"

He laughed along with everyone else.

"So be it," declared Théoden in approval. "Then let us ride forth to wrath or ruin. There will be a reckoning this night and I am not of a mind to miss it. To War!"

"To War!" cried all within earshot, and the cry broke like a wave across the eager ranks behind them until a thousand steeds and one old (but sturdy) Cleansweep carried the cries of those they bore - not to the north as originally planned - but bent to a southward course.

Towards Helm's Deep.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Author's Note:_ Some dialogue and descriptions in this chapter are courtesy of LOTR, The Two Towers: Chapters 5, 6 and 7.

So sorry about the wait, but this chapter was a blooming nightmare to write. It's very difficult to turn the period of nothingness between Grima's banishment and the (almost) arrival at Helm's Deep into _something_ and I tried to make it as good as I could. I wrote three different versions, but each one was more ghastly than the previous and I ended up chucking them out. So this is the best I can do without going into the actual battle at Helm's Deep (which I'm saving for its own chapter).

This chapter might be utter bollocks, or you might not find it too bad, but you'll have noticed either way that there's not as much humour as usual - it's very hard to find something to laugh about when people are preparing for a fight. But don't worry, a laugh or two will not be far away even in the darkest moments of this tale.

Thanks for reading,

Kara's Aunty ;)


	20. Flight to the Fords

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. and Lord of the Rings and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

**Credit: **www dot hp-encyclopedia dot com and www dot Tuckborough dot net, www dot /translation/Sindarin, www dot realelvish dot net and several (billion) miscellaneous websites (far too many to mention - I can't even remember half of them).

**Please review - it really _is_ my only reward.**

**Not Quite A Maia**

**Chapter 20**

* * *

_Third Age: 2nd__-3__rd__ March 3019_

_Several miles south of Orthanc_

At around mid-afternoon the day after they arrived in the Wizard's Vale, Augusta and Glorfindel halted their mounts by a little bridge that spanned the River Isen only a mile away from the hulking Tower of Orthanc.

Hmm. What to do now?

The sensible thing, of course, would be to cross it and be on their merry way towards Gondor as fast as humanly possible. Particularly as they had already spotted a vast army of smelly orcs pouring from Isengard towards the Gap of Rohan. After all, why should she intervene in a war that wasn't her own? What did she really owe the Rohirrim - a people whom she had never met? Nudging her pretty little horse across the narrow stone bridge would be the most expedient way to reach Minas Tirith as soon as she could, whilst avoiding what was sure to be a messy and highly unpleasant confrontation with Grodek's (no doubt equally disgusting) friends. It was, without question, the easiest way out.

But Augusta Longbottom was not the sort of person who was wont to take the easiest way out.

"It's certainly inviting, isn't it?" she remarked, shifting her gaze between the bridge and the receding ranks of Saruman's troops.

"Most certainly," replied her companion in a neutral voice.

His response was enough to bring a slight curve to her lip.

"And no one would blame us for just hopping across it and riding onwards until we reached our destination, would they?"

"Nay, they would not. Our intent _is_ to reach Minas Tirith at all possible speed."

"Exactly! We haven't the time to dilly-dally about the riverside when my boy's neck-deep in Merlin knows what sort of bother."

There was a pause while she tapped her chin thoughtfully, before resuming: "Still, I do seem to remember agreeing not to look for him while he's still on his way to Mount Gloom - and heaven knows how long that could take him."

"It may take weeks," confirmed Glorfindel, just as thoughtfully.

He really was a thoroughly agreeable fellow, in her opinion!

"Yes. Weeks," she echoed, watching the last of the army fade into the distance. "Plenty of time for that nefarious idiot behind us to do as much damage as he wants. We don't know the exact size of his army, after all. Why, he could have thousands - tens of thousands - of the smelly blighters, just waiting for the chance to conquer Rohan, then sweep down the Westemmet to take a swipe at Gondor, too!"

"West_emnet_, my Lady."

Augusta rolled her eyes. Emmet, Emnet: what was the difference?

"My point," she said in slight exasperation, "is, that though we may reap the short-term benefits of taking ourselves off to Minas Tirith via that little bridge, the long-term ramifications would vastly outweigh them. Don't you agree?"

"Indeed, my Lady."

"Oh, I do wish you would refer to me as Aunt Augusta. You'll have to get used to it if we're to convince the people of Gondor of our respectability, you know."

The tinkling of musical laughter filled the air for several seconds before the elf calmed himself enough to answer. It never failed to amuse him that she was worried the Gondorians might mistake them for anything more than good friends.

"Forgive me, _Aunt_," he said (still chuckling). "I shall use no other form of address from this moment onwards."

"Splendid. Welcome to the family. Now, as I was saying: it would be a dreadful pity to allow that ghastly green scoundrel to have his wicked way with the Rohirrim, then the Gondorish…"

"Gondorians."

She followed the sound of his voice to glare in his general direction.

"…_Gondorians_, when there was something that we could do to help. I do, after all, also recall mentioning something about assisting the Rohirrim, if the worst came to the worst."

"I believe you mentioned 'causing tension' amidst the ranks of the Enemy, my La…er, Aunt Augusta."

"Quite! So, in reality, the expedient thing to do would be to…"

"…to shadow the Enemy and attack from behind?"

"My thoughts exactly!" declared the elderly witch, idly wondering if her dashing companion wasn't perhaps the world's first Muggle Legilimens.

Glorfindel beamed (invisibly).

With her mind made up (and her mental shields intact - just in case), Augusta tapped her chin in deliberation. "Now, what we need is a plan: how can just two of us make a large enough dent in the ranks of several thousand smelly orcs for it to be of benefit the Rohirrim?"

Hmm… A dent…

Suddenly, the Green Witch smiled.

"Of course! That's it! We need to make a _dent!_"

"A dent?" queried the elf softly. "I know not how that will prove effective, but, having seen them with my own eyes, I have the greatest of faith in your abilities."

What a tip-top fellow! Hadn't his parents raised him well? Augusta made a mental note to find out a little more about them during their journey to Gondor.

But for the present, there was a fight to pick.

"Thank you, Archibald. What a thoroughly pleasant chap you are! Now, I do believe we are in need of some weapons…"

"_Glorfindel!_ We are not in Gondor yet, Aunt," muttered the unhappy elf. "And alas, but we brought none with us save my sword and your staff."

"Poppycock," she declared (ignoring his lament about his splendid new name). "There are weapons everywhere. We only have to look down to find them."

Augusta drew her wand and dismounted Celebrithil. She cast a Lumos and trained it over the dirt path that led from the road to the bridge, bending down frequently to collect stones of varying size. A quick tap rendered her pockets bottomless and weightless as she dropped the stones inside them. Glorfindel watched her in amused confusion.

"Unless you are in possession of a Hobbit catapult, I do not believe those little rocks will inflict much damage on our numerous opponents," he commented dryly.

Fortunately for the stately elf, Augusta was much too pleased with the contents of her bulging pockets to reprimand (or jinx) him for his remark.

"Not yet, perhaps. But they very soon will be."

"I am intrigued as to there purpose. What would you have us do with them?"

He did not expect the answer she gave.

"First of all, I intend to give the orcs a sporting chance."

Certain he had misheard her (despite his superior elven hearing), Glorfindel laughed.

"You never fail to amuse me, Aunt! For a moment, I thought you intended to offer the filth of Isengard the opportunity to parlay."

He heard her mount Celebrithil once more, heard the now-familiar huff of frustration she made when having to repeat herself, and realised he had not misunderstood her after all.

"'Parlay' might not be _quite _the right word, young fellow. But I simply can't just ride up behind them and start blasting them to smithereens without giving them the chance to deserve it first. It simply isn't cricket, you know!"

Glorfindel rolled his eyes. It seemed to him like a pointless exercise - they were only orcs, after all - but he knew she had her values and would not be swayed from them, and they both knew that Saruman's unnatural minions would not be gracious enough to accept her terms, anyway.

As a matter of fact, the entire exercise should prove to be very diverting!

"And after they have thrown their one and only chance back in my face, I intend to use my little friends here to make that dent I was talking about. As for you, well I think you'll like this part..."

And he laughed in delight as she informed him of the rest of her 'plan'.

**XXX**

It was dark by the time Augusta and Glorfindel caught up to the (stinking) ranks of Saruman's army.

But it was not the darkness that bothered the elderly witch - it was the smell. To her great annoyance, the wind was blowing the odour of an entire unwashed battalion of orcs straight up her patrician nose.

What foul, disgusting creatures they were! How very unpleasant to have their stinking bodies in such close proximity to her own pleasantly fragrant one. They were quite ruining the effect of the prettily scented lavender oil that Elrond had been decent enough to leave in her quarters (a full bottle - which she had pocketed before she left Imladris. He wouldn't mind; hoteliers were used to guests helping themselves to the toiletries. What a pity he hadn't left a bathrobe and slippers, too). What had been the point of daubing it generously on her throat before leaving (but not _too_ generously; wouldn't want Floor-kindle getting the wrong idea and making a lunge for her when she was battling the hordes of Isengard), if the effect was to be ruined by a bunch of inconsiderate, malodorous miscreants?

"I ought to blast the whole lot of them to pieces simply for smelling so bad!" she muttered.

Glorfindel chuckled softly. "Nay, not all of them," he protested gallantly. "Or would you deny your nephew the opportunity of unleashing his sword to avenge the offence they have given you?"

"What a jolly nice thing to say. You know, you'll make some nice young woman a very fine husband one day, I should think. In fact, we may have to beat them off you with a stick when we get to Gondor. Don't worry though: as your aunt, I will make it my highest priority to screen any potential brides for you. Can't abide the thought of any relation of mine being lumbered with some idiot of a girl who spends all day swooning at the mere sight of him and can't hold a conversation about anything other than the latest fashions. All this nonsense about who's wearing what and to where! As far as I'm concerned, one winter coat is enough for any respectable person!"

And she would know. She'd had the same one for the past fifty years.

Her invisible 'nephew' was trying desperately to stifle his amusement at the thought of his future bride being vetted by the Green Witch.

"Now, then: lets see what we can do about those orcs."

They urged the horses on a little further until they were a mere hundred yards behind the army of orcs which stomped, roared and barrelled its way towards the riverbank.

"You are certain you still wish to give these creatures a 'sporting chance'?" queried Glorfindel as the stink of their enemies grew more intense the nearer they drew.

"Certainly. It wouldn't be fair to attack them from behind without warning or provocation. I know, I know - sometimes the English sense of fair play is a dashed nuisance - but I would never be able to face myself if I pushed it to the side just for the sake of convenience."

He sighed, drawing his sword and resigning himself to the fact that he would have to watch her tempt fate.

"As you wish. I will remain close by."

Augusta didn't see his nod of agreement, but she heard the movement of Asfaloth as the horse moved away and knew that her companion was now in position a few feet behind her.

Which meant it was time to give the orcs that sporting chance she had been banging on about two hours ago...

Reining Celebrithil to a halt, Augusta daintily lifted her wand and lifted the Disillusionment charm which concealed her presence (but leaving Celebrithil's intact), then touched it to her throat to perform the same spell that had seen her in such good stead back at Orthanc.

"_Sonorus._"

There! All set! Only one thing left to do...

"GOOD EVENING, CHAPS. MAY I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION, PLEASE?"

Her voice, crisp and confident, boomed over the growls and yells of the hordes in front of her, and she watched in satisfaction as the entire last two rows of orcs jumped in fright. Shocked, the latter half of the company aborted their swift pace forward and whirled around in surprise, ready to slay the sneaking warrior who had dared to approach them from behind...

...only to spot a little old woman with a _really_ ugly hat _floating in mid-air_?

It was enough to startle them for several seconds.

Which gave Augusta enough time for a chat...

"I AM AUGUSTA LONGBOTTOM, THE GREEN WITCH, AND I DEMAND THAT EVERY LAST SMELLY ONE OF YOU STOP IN YOUR TRACKS THIS VERY INSTANT. IF YOU DO, I SHALL BE WILLING TO ACCEPT YOUR UNCONDITIONAL SURRENDER. IF NOT, THEN MERLIN HELP YOU!"

Not in the least intimidated by her astonishing appearance (and even more astonishing ultimatum), a few huge orcs broke formation and started running towards her, waving wicked blades and axes and grinning in anticipation of the easy kill. One pulled a bow from his shoulder, nocked an arrow, and fired.

"_PROTEGO!_"

A shimmering shield burst into being before Augusta and Celebrithil, easily deflecting the arrow.

Right, then. Sporting chance given and promptly wasted.

So she needn't feel the slightest bit guilty about what she was going to do next.

She pointed her deadly wand at the ground her attackers were just about to cross...

"_DEFODIO!_"

Huge chunks of the paved road were carved out of the ground as the spell struck. Slabs of rock went flying through the air, instantly killing two of the orcs, before she rendered the heavy objects motionless with a flick of her wand. The remaining group of (now very intimidated) orcs couldn't halt their forward momentum quick enough to stop themselves falling into the deep void in the once-smooth road.

"TUT, TUT," she boomed at the stunned onlookers. "LOOK AT THAT DEUCED GREAT HOLE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD! DON'T YOU HAVE PEOPLE TO TAKE CARE OF THINGS LIKE THAT? NO? WELL, THEN: ALLOW ME!"

She aimed at the gaping hole and - just as two of the huge beasts peeped dazedly over the edge of the crater...

"_REPARO!_"

The floating rocks hurtled towards the ground. One of the orcs possessed the misfortune of looking up to see his doom crashing towards him and tried to make a mad scramble out of the crater, but he wasn't fast enough. With a final cry of horror, he flung his arms over his head and the last sound he made was a sickening _squelch_ as the highway reformed into its former, smooth state.

There. That was _much_ better. Now nobody else had to worry about spraining their ankle in a pot-hole.

Her enraged enemies were not as thrilled with her road maintenance skills as she was, though. Several massive uruk-hai came barrelling towards the old woman, intent on ending her life just as quickly as she had ended those of their comrades. One broke free from his friends, snarling and spitting in anger as he brandished his crude blade at her.

"I'm gonna kill yer an' eat yer shrivelled ol' liver for dinner!" he yelled in a mad fury.

She rolled her eyes in disgust and allowed him to get as close as ten feet away, then watched him raise his arm to strike her down. Just as she raised her wand to Transfigure him into a goat (because if his friends were as hungry as he appeared to be, they might appreciate a decent meal), there was a loud, musical cry of...

"_Elbereth Gilthoniel!_"

...and then her dashing companion hacked the idiot's arm off.

The sight of their comrade losing his arm for no apparent reason (and his agonised screams as he fell to the ground clutching the bleeding stump) was enough to discourage those that followed. They stumbled to a halt in confusion, giving Augusta enough time to perform a Quietus, then Disillusion herself once more. She heard the soft sound of Asfaloth's careful step as the horse drew next to her.

"Come, Aunt. The captains at the head of the company will soon despatch soldiers to investigate why the rear guard has stalled. We must move away from the road before they rally and have their archers take aim in this direction," warned Glorfindel, as one of the orcs who had witnessed the disturbance shrugged the horn he carried from his shoulder and blew heavily into it. The deep, bellowing sound started a chain reaction. Further up the ranks, another horn blared, then another.

Thinking it a good idea to follow her companion's advice, she followed him off the road. They moved away from the rear guard just as arrows began to whiz up the highway, riding several metres parallel to the now slow-moving company for over almost a minute. until they reached the more densely populated centre. Saruman's soldiers had paused in their frantic pace to turn and see what the commotion was that had disturbed their travels.

Having no idea that the commotion was closer than they thought...

"Are you ready, young man?" Augusta asked crisply of her companion.

There was the sound of a sword being unsheathed from its scabbard (again).

"I have never been more so, Aunt Augusta," replied Glorfindel with relish.

She smiled (not that he could see it). "Well, then. Time to get started, eh?"

Augusta dipped her hand in her pocket and pulled out one of the many dozen stones she had gathered from the roadside, Levitating it to float roughly ten feet to the left of Celebrithil's flank.

"_Olferveo unda!_"

A jet of boiling oil shot from her wand tip and covered the tiny object.

Satisfied, she waved her wand to Enlarge it.

Although expecting the action, Glorfindel still watched with wide eyes as the stone swelled to the size of a large boulder, then promptly burst into flames after another incantation from his honorary aunt.

"I think that should be enough to catch their attention, don't you?" the elderly witch asked briskly, before flicking her wand and sending the burning boulder soaring high into the night sky. Their eyes tracked it as it arced higher and higher through the air, before gravity took hold and sent it plummeting down, down, down...

...smack into the ranks of the unsuspecting orcs.

A huge roar of surprise rose a mere second after the rock fell and the once-neat formation of smelly soldiers scattered in fear from the point of impact, yelling and screaming in anger as they fled.

"I think that went down rather well," Augusta remarked casually. "Don't you?"

The invisible elf nodded, forgetting for a moment that she couldn't see him. "Indeed, Aunt. Most impressive."

"Do you think we'd have as much success with another one?"

"I would say that, given the large number of Enemy forces, we could not fail to be successful, Aunt."

"That's what I thought. Well, then: here goes!"

Within seconds, another burning boulder was sailing its way through the sky towards the nearest battalion. The centre of the company had thinned noticeably after the first strike as dozens of orcs fled the surprise attack, but Augusta had accounted for this when casting her Banishing charm and put more force into the second one. It flew farther to the right and crashed a quarter of a mile up in the ranks, eliciting another roar of anger from their foes. Fire now burned in two separate spots and more dark shapes could easily be seen fleeing from both directions of the once-neat formation.

Which would make them easier to pick off...

"I think it's your turn now, my good chap. Off you go. And don't forget: don't get too close to the main body of the army - I don't want to risk hitting you with one of these fiery balls."

"Have no fear," Glorfindel stated happily. "I shall content myself with spreading fear amongst those who flee, whilst you continue spreading your own brand of fear among those foolish enough to remain! Until later, Aunt Augusta!"

With that, the golden-haired elf went galloping off into the distance to make his presence felt (if not seen).

Leaving her to wreak havoc among the remaining troops...

**XXX**

The battle was not going well, Elfhelm knew this. For many hours, the companies of Edoras had battled to keep the enemy on the western bank of the Isen, firing arrows and throwing long spears into the orcish ranks each time a wave of dark figures dared the crossing. Saruman's troops seemed to multiply every time he looked over the water: the sheer number of orcs and uruk-hai was overwhelming and the Rohirrim were beginning to tire from the effort of maintaining their defences.

But they had not given up yet. They were Rohirrim. Descendants of warriors the likes of Eorl the Young and Helm Hammerhand! Sooner would Elfhelm swallow his own sword, than admit defeat to the evil of Isengard!

Now, two hours before midnight, there was a lull in the Enemy's attack and an uneasy calm had fallen east of the Isen. No one knew for certain if the orcs had retreated in defeat, or yet lurked, waiting to lull them into a false sense of security before striking anew. Elfhelm used the momentary ceasefire to order Halfreth and a dozen of his other captains have soldiers clear the fallen and take the wounded to the wagons which would carry them safely to Helm's Deep.

Helm's Deep.

He sighed and patted his chestnut steed wearily. That was where he had wished to take his companies initially, for he knew that the enemy would, eventually, find their way across the river. His troops numbered only one thousand: theirs was significantly greater. So great, in fact, that it was surely only by the grace of the Valar that his men had managed to stay them this long.

But it could not last forever.

"The muster regroups, lord," said a voice to his right. He looked over his shoulder to see Halfreth approaching him on his grey mare.

"Good. How many casualties have we sustained?"

"Over one hundred. Chiefly those archers nearest the banks."

Over one hundred? Helm's hammer! That was a tenth of his troops. Refusing to betray his dismay, the Marshal set his jaw firmly. "And how many have fallen?"

Halfreth sighed. "Seventy-four Men, five horses. Again, those nearest the river's edge."

Elfhelm could not help it: he closed his eyes and swallowed. The figures were not bad, but they were not good. Altogether, his army had been reduced by almost a fifth of its original numbers. He mourned the loss of the steeds almost as much as that of the fallen.

All seventy-four of them.

_Seventy-four _dead Rohirrim. Seventy-four men with wives and children. Almost eighty widows new this night. Over one hundred and forty parents who would never see their sons again. Dozens of children to tell that their fathers would never return to them, never hold them, or teach them how to ride. How was it to be borne? How could he impart so much sorrow to so many people?

For, if he lived through this night, it _would_ be he that told them. It was his duty to those who had served him so faithfully, who had sacrificed their own lives to fight for a lasting peace which seemed always _just_ out of reach.

"Thank you, Halfreth," he answered, opening his eyes to stare directly at the captain. His tone was neutral, but he knew that the other man sensed his pain, for Halfreth clasped his arm in silent support.

"We will not fail this night, Elfhelm. Not all who are wounded are so badly injured that they cannot fight. Over a dozen suffer mere flesh wounds which have already been treated, and they are ready to raise bows and swords once more - they insist upon it! And the others that remain are baying for the blood of those who slew our brethren. Such is the spirit of Rohan!"

"Then let us hope they can put that spirit to useful purpose when the next strike comes. For come, it shall. We will be in need of their righteous ire then," the Marshall stated firmly, heartened by the courage of his men. "And let us take comfort in this: we have sustained remarkably fewer casualties than I would have thought, given the size of Saruman's forces."

"Indeed," agreed the burly captain. "I, also, would have expected more. It is a blessing that we have so many Men left to fight after such a sustained assault. Grimfreth and the other captains rally them with vows of vengeance..."

Halfreth paused and peered into the distance, causing Elfhelm to tear his gaze from the captain and focus it across the river.

"What is it? Is it the Orcs? What do you see, Halfreth?"

"'Tis not what I see, but what I hear: listen!"

Frowning, the Marshal did as he was bid. At first he could hear nothing from the opposite bank, which set his nerves on edge. Where were the foul creatures? Were they watching his men?

"I hear nothing," he murmured, grateful, at least, that he had the sense to ban the use of campfires during the break in hostilities. Orcs may have superior vision, but it would still be foolish to make it too easy for them.

"Shh! Listen!"

Sometimes, Elfhelm wondered if there was perhaps a touch of elvish blood in his captain. Not that the hulking man had inherited any of their fairness of face (although he would never say that to said face - Halfreth was also renowned for the force of his left fist), but his hearing was uncannily sharp. It was a talent that had earned him notoriety among his own soldiers (they were less wont to gossip about the fierce red-head than any other captain, for fear of his overhearing), it was a highly useful skill at times such as these.

Trusting in the impressive range of his captain's excellent ears, he cocked his head in the direction of the river.

Which was when he heard it.

"Sweet Horn of the Mark! Was that what I thought it to be?"

But Halfreth didn't answer. Instead, he grabbed his commander's shoulder and pointed at the sky over the western bank.

"Look!" he cried.

Elfhelm tipped his head back as his gaze followed the man's finger - and then his jaw dropped. A mere half-mile away on the opposite side of the Isen, soaring through the blackness of the night, was an enormous ball of fire.

But it was not soaring in the _Rohirrim's_ direction.

The two men didn't hear the crash as it fell, but it did have the effect of producing a sound which froze their blood.

The screeches of wolves.

Wargs! So, the enemy had not retreated - they were merely biding their time until reinforcements arrived!

The beasts could be heard screeching and yowling from half a mile away and all eyes on the eastern bank now swivelled to watch distant forms, ablaze with flame, making a desperate dash to the river.

"Captains, muster the troops! Make ready the archers! Get the wounded out of here now!" barked Elfhelm, knowing that the smell of their blood would attract the ferocious wolves that accompanied Saruman's orcs. "I know not what goes forth here, but I will not take chances if there is a new enemy to deal with."

There was a flurry of activity as several riders left to see to his orders and the remaining ones closed ranks beside their captain. The low murmurs of the Rohirrim were silenced as the sound which originally caught Halfreth's attention called out in the night once more.

It was closing in on them.

"Steady," warned Elfhelm, raising his hand in warning for the archers not to fire. "We know not our Enemy's position."

"..._smelly...disgraceful state to leave the house...pitiful excuse for a horse...show you!_"

"Was that a _woman_?" gasped a rider to Elfhelm's left, stunned into lowering his bow.

There was no chance to answer as, once again, a huge ball of fire came crashing down on the western bank.

Then another.

And another.

Guttural screams split the air as scores of figures attempted to flee from the path of the burning projectiles. Not all were successful. Many lit up the night with flame as they barrelled towards the ice-cold Isen. Plumes of thick smoke rose in the air and the wind carried the smell of burning flesh farther down the Gap, causing chaos amidst enemy forces that had been hidden from sight not two minutes before.

The woman's voice rang out through the night once more and the volume of it stunned the brave soldiers of Rohan.

"...OUGHT TO BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELVES! THIS CLOSE TO THE WATER - AND NOT ONE OF YOU THOUGHT TO BRING A BAR OF SOAP?"

_What?_

The Marshal of Edoras swapped a look of intense confusion with his equally shocked captain.

Which was when they heard the _other_ (equally loud) voice.

"ELBERETH GILTHONIEL! GURTH AN CHYTH VIN! DEATH TO THE ENEMIES OF THE WEST!"

"That was an Elvish voice!" declared Halfreth in excitement. "'It is not another foe! It is Elvish magic that comes to our aid!"

"Maintain silence and hold all weapons ready! There could still be more Orcs directly ahead of us - we do not wish resume hostilities until we have no other choice," warned Elfhelm.

But Halfreth's words had already carried to his nearest neighbours. Hope surged through the ranks of the Rohirrim even as shouts of anger and rage from the opposite bank reached their ears. Soldiers weary from hours of battle straightened their shoulders and drew swords as chaos erupted on the other side of the river.

More flaming orbs flew through the air, this time crashing up the western bank only a short distance away, which gave them all their best view yet of the carnage unfolding. The shockwave of the object's impact sent bodies flying through the air (that were not crushed underneath it). Orcs, uruk-hai and - much to Elfhelm's disgust - hillmen of Dunland fled in all directions as flames reached out to lick at their clothing.

"THAT'S RIGHT! FLEE FOR YOUR MISERABLE LIVES, YOU DISGRACEFUL MUTANTS! RUN BACK TO THAT SORRY EXCUSE OF A WIZARD AND BEG HIM FOR A HOT BATH - AND A DECENT BOTTLE OF SHAMPOO! AND WHILE YOU'RE AT IT, YOU CAN ASK HIM WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE TROUNCED BY A _MERE WOMAN_!"

The voice was so much closer now that most of the men winced at the volume.

And then another voice cried out - an orcish one.

Directly across from them.

The Isen was not as wide so far down the Gap as it was in the Wizard's Vale, where it boasted a breadth of a mile or more. This was why the Rohirrim guarded it so valiantly against Saruman's army. To hear the voice of the enemy so near their current position, when they had thought them to have retreated, sent a current of alarm up the blond Marshal. Concerned at their proximity and unsure of their numbers, Elfhelm gave a wordless signal to ready the arrows lest the creatures resumed their charge across the Isen.

However, much to everyone's surprise, the orcish cry was not an order to initiate a new wave of attack. It was a guttural cry of anger mixed with..._fear_?

"It's 'er! It's 'er! Ol' Grodek was righ' - it's the Witch! The Wicked Witch o' the West! Get 'er, afore she kills us all!"

An enormous roar of anger rose from the west bank. Such was its volume, that it almost rivalled the woman's booming tones. There was a rush of stampeding boots and scores - nay _hundreds_ - of dark shadows barrelled back up the Gap of Rohan to smite their new enemy.

Elfhelm stuck a finger in each ear to clear them. Had he heard correctly. Did the enemy just say _'witch'_?

"Surely there is no such thing as a Witch?" whispered Halfreth, echoing his own thoughts.

"Great are the arts of the Firstborn, yet I have never heard of an Elf with the power to shoot fire through the very skies," replied the astonished Marshal. "Have you?"

Halfreth shook his head. "Nay. Then it must be as our Enemy claims! She is a Witch! Helm's hammer, I never thought to see such a day! And they fear her - which means she is their enemy. And if that is so..."

"...then _their _enemy is _our_ friend!"

They beamed at each other in delight, then beamed even more as the witch's crisp, no-nonsense voice boomed out words foreign to their ears.

"_CONFRINGO MAXIMA!_"

The paved road - which several hundred orcs were currently racing their way up - exploded, sending rock, earth and screaming enemies flying up, up, up into the air, before they all came crashing down, down, down back onto their very unhappy comrades.

From across the river, another voice - deep and snarling with outrage - gave a call to arms.

"Master's givin' a rich reward ta the first one tha' bring's 'er 'ead back ter 'im! Find 'er! Kill 'er! Tha's an order!"

It was enough to send the remaining orcs and men charging up the road in a mad frenzy.

And as quickly as that, their mysterious benefactress had removed the threat of imminent attack.

A cheer rose up from the ranks of the Rohirrim - drowned out by the horrible screams from the other side of the river. Feminine and (wildly gleeful) elvish voices boomed over the land, drawing ever closer. Jets of coloured light flashed again and again into the darkness. More burning orbs crushed Saruman's unlucky troops, brightening the night enough for them to witness enemies crashing into each other in their panic to flee as far from the Isen as possible. One enormous uruk was spinning in circles, slashing his crude blade through the air as ear-splitting elvish laughter tinkled around him - and Elfhelm's eyes boggled as the creature's head rolled off its neck for no apparent reason.

"ENEMIES OF ROHAN! SEEK THE BLADE OF GLORFINDEL AND HE WILL DELIVER YOU A MORE MERCIFUL DEATH THAN YOU DESERVE!"

But the few orcs unlucky enough to witness their fallen comrade's mysterious demise were too busy fleeing away from the river (and the general direction of the Wicked Witch of the West) to take the elf up on his offer.

Not that _that _stopped the elf from following them anyway...

Another roar of approval rose from the horse-lords (and this time, even Elfhelm joined in).

Could it be that they were saved after all? Had the Valar themselves sent them an Istar - a _witch_, no less - to aid them in their struggles?

The merriment on the eastern bank was soon dampened as Halfreth grabbed Elfhelm's arm and drew his gaze across the river. For there, soaring towards them, was a dazzling white light. The majority of the company turned on their steeds to make a dash back across the eastern plains, alarmed at the thought their mysterious saviour had turned on them so quickly and sought to crush them all beneath her flaming orbs in kind. Only when their Marshal called out for them to maintain formation did they (reluctantly) rein in their horses and fall back into position (to await their probable doom).

"It is not an orb," called Elfhelm firmly as he watched the light bounding towards them. "Look! It is a giant...fish...of sorts - yet it floats above the water!"

Indeed it did. The long, glowing, elegant fish seemed to skim across the Isen without any desire to submerge itself. The Rohirrim emitted gasps and rumbles of awe as it sprang into the air upon reaching the east bank and flew gracefully, almost mischievously, above their heads for several seconds. Many was the man who's heart was lifted by its presence. Finally, it stopped cavorting in the air above them and returned to hover near the front line of their ranks. It floated gently towards the ground and seemed to balance perfectly on its tail. Large, bright eyes watched them curiously.

Elfhelm kept his eyes on the wondrous creature as he slowly dismounted and cautiously approached it. It was not until he was a few feet from it that he realised it was not solid. Curious, he drew closer. It seemed to consist of tightly packed mist, yet it seemed alive nonetheless. He reached out a hand to gently touch it, then jumped back in fright when it began to speak.

In two different voices.

"_Good evening, my good fellows! I am the Green Witch. Well, the dolphin's not the Green Witch - he's just my Patronus..."_

"_Aunt, they will not know what a...Patronus...is. Indeed, I do not know what one is."_

"_Ah, yes. Of course. Well, let's try that again. This dolphin is just a...happy spirit...of sorts, that I can use to send messages or fight Dementors. There is no cause for alarm when you see it - unless you actually ARE a Dementor, in which case; I hope you burn in hell..."_

"_What, pray tell, is a Dementor?"_

"_Gracious, young man! I don't have all day to answer questions when there's a horde of screaming orcs just up the road. I'll answer them later!"_

"_Forgive me, Aunt."_

"_That's quite alright. It's only natural for you to be curious. Now, my Rohirric friends - I do hope you will not think me presumptuous for calling you 'friends' when we've not even met - I'll have to keep this short before those smelly fellows realise I'm no longer up there and start dashing back down here again. My nephew, Archibald, and I..."_

"_**They**_ _are not Gondorians! Cannot you introduce me as Glorfindel?"_

"_What the deuce is wrong with 'Archibald'? You'll have to get used to it, you know. Oh, all right. Just this once! Anyway, my nephew, Floor-kindle, and I..."_

"_Floor-WHAT?"_

"..._are travelling to the Fords of Isen and intend to cross through your land on our way to Gondor - I hope you don't mind if we trespass - and we spotted that disgraceful excuse for an army marching ahead of us to murder you all in your beds. Naturally, we couldn't allow the ghastly misfits to get away with it and have been attacking the smaller companies on our way south. But you should know, that there is a rather enormous battalion of the smelly blighters about two miles further up the road. Ghastly creatures seemed to come out of nowhere. We only spotted them twenty minutes ago - that is, Archibald spotted them. My eyesight isn't what it used to be, I'm afraid. Regardless: at the pace they're running, they'll be here in roughly half an hour. I'm afraid we can't stop to wait for them because our help will no doubt be needed at the Fords themselves. However, if it's any consolation, we have set a few booby traps along the..."_

"_**What** manner of traps?"_

"_Will you stop interrupting me, young man? This Patronus won't last forever, you know, and I don't want to waste it. Now, where was I? Oh yes: the road. We've set a few boo...er, traps for them - twenty-four hour quicksand, boiling tar pits, that sort of thing - along several stretches of the road, but I'm afraid it won't take care of all of them. There are simply too many. So you'll have to prepare yourselves for another confrontation with the enemy. Still, I have it from an excellent source that you Rohirrim are a strapping bunch of fellows and are well up for the challenge of a few thousand orcs. I wish you all the best and hope that Archibald and I..."_

"_GLORFINDEL!"_

"..._Men! Always so dashed sensitive about things. As I was saying, I hope that Floor-kindle and I have been able to lighten the load for you a little. Keep your chins up, chaps. You are a credit to your parents and your country. Cheerio!"_

And with that, the graceful fish-creature evaporated.

The Rohirrim were silent for over a minute, too stunned to speak. Slowly, a murmur began in the forward line of troops as the Green Witch's words were passed backwards into the crowd of soldiers lined along the length of the eastern bank. Elfhelm was still standing, staring at the spot where the spirit-fish had delivered its message before vanishing, contemplating all that he had heard. His mind was racing and he began to pace slowly back and forth, absorbing what he had learned.

It appeared that the Men of the West had an ally unlooked for.

And a most unusual one at that.

A witch!

And not a wicked witch at all, as their foes claimed. A good witch. A green witch with a white spirit-fish.

Green and white. The colours of Rohan.

He turned to face his company, holding up a hand to silence their increasingly loud murmurs.

"Riders of the Mark, warriors of Rohan, friends and soldiers all..."

The murmuring slowly died as all strained to hear their Marshal.

"...we have borne much of late. The threat of Isengard looms on our western border. A fallen Istar plots our ruin and sends unnatural foes to smite us down, while his agent - one that once knew the favour of our King - now kneels at Théoden's feet to offer false counsel in service of his new master. Our Prince lies dead by the treachery of Saruman but a few leagues hence, buried on an island that our landsmen now seek to defend from further assault. Already we have fought long and hard this day to prevent an army of overwhelming force crossing the Isen, intent on bringing death to our women and children. Many have fallen, Man and Horse alike, but we have prevailed in our attempts to stem the foul tide that bleeds from the direction of Orthanc and would sully our fair lands with its poison.

"And now, we learn that our endeavours are not yet at an end. For Saruman is not yet spent in his efforts to destroy us! Nay! He sends forth more Orcs and Uruk-hai from the bowels of his home to contend with us - to defeat us! He sends an army of innumerable size that would crush us underfoot, before sweeping the Mark to slay our families! Dark would seem this night! Blacker than is normal for the mere sinking of the sun. Wickedness is our very neighbour; treachery our trusted counsel!"

Everywhere he looked, Elfhelm saw grim faces and clenched jaws: they reflected the fury of a people betrayed.

They reflected his own face.

"But we are a hardy people! Our own ancestors survived plagues, wars and slavery to rebuild our race when all hope seemed lost! They befriended the ancestors of the Númenoreans and offered them aid in their hour of need. Eorl the Young was granted the lands we now call home for their great service, and she has given us succour in times of war, and joy in times of peace. For countless generations we have spilled blood in her service, guarded her beauty valiantly against those who cast their covetous gaze upon her! And now, she calls us to service once more! Shall we answer that call?"

The challenge was answered unanimously.

"Aye!"

"Though many have fallen this night; though many more may know the intimacy of the halls of our fathers ere the next dawn blesses her with its kiss - shall we offer her our lives to protect our children's inheritance?"

"_Aye!_"

"Though the Enemy seeks to deliver our doom with a final, savage, blow? With an army greater in number than we could have imagined even in our darkest dreams?"

"AYE!"

The Marshal nodded in approval.

"True of heart are you, my brothers! There is no other who can match the honour of the Men of Rohan!" he declared firmly as his men thudded their spears repetitively on the ground in appreciation of his words.

He held his hand up again to still their gratitude, before continuing.

"Or is there? For the night which has witnessed our most desperate struggle has also delivered to us our greatest friends! Two strangers who came to our aid, though we did not seek it. Strangers who risked their own lives to spare ours, though they know us not! We are at least familiar with one of their kind: the Elf named..."

Elfhelm paused. What in the name of Helm's mighty hammer had been the elf's _actual _name? His experience with the Firstborn was limited (in fact, it was non-existent) and they knew so little of the histories of those peoples. He had never been able to get his tongue around their flowery titles. Giving a mental shrug, he chose the one the witch had used most.

"The Elf named Archibald. We may not know him in person, but mighty are the Firstborn in battle! Noble are they in deed and word! Always have they seemed to us as a race apart: favoured and blessed by the very Valar themselves. Immortal, wise and fair, yet little concerned with the matters of Men! Yet, this very night, we heard one of their own declare death to the enemies of Rohan on _our_ behalf! _His_ blade has shed the blood of Saruman's filth, that we may be spared the threat from theirs! His gift of sight gave us warning of the danger which approaches us with every passing second - and the chance to prepare for it! This night, we learned that the matters of Men - the matters of _Rohan_ - are not of little import to these most blessed of beings. Praise the Valar for our noble Elven allies! Praise the Valar for Archibald the Elf!"

"Archibald! Archibald! Archibald!" chanted the mass of riders with passion.

Glorfindel would have been devastated.

"And with him," continued Elfhelm, "is a wonder that none of us could have imagined: a female Maia! An Istar in the guise of an old woman. One whom our Enemy calls the Wicked Witch of the West! But I tell you this: if she is wicked in their eyes, then she is good in ours! Green she names her colour. White was the beauteous spirit-fish she sent to warn us. Are these not the very colours of Rohan itself?"

"Aye!"

"And did we not hear her warn our foes to disband in order to..."

Elfhelm couldn't stop the chuckle.

"...in order to return to Isengard and _beg their master for a hot bath_?"

A roar of laughter greeted his inquiry, and Elfhelm was glad to hear it. The memory of her words would hearten his men before what would, for some, be the final battle.

"We saw with our own eyes the flaming orbs she sent soaring through the sky to crash into his minions. We heard with our own ears the fear and rage she instils in Orc and Uruk alike. We may deduce from her own words that she somehow engaged and bested Saruman the traitor in battle. So great is the dark Wizard's fear of her now, that his soldiers would abandon their posts in an effort to bring him the comfort of her lifeless corpse!"

There was a cheer of approval from the camp.

"And now she rides to the aid of our brethren at the Fords of Isen, in the esteemed company of Archibald the Elf, to visit her wrath upon our enemies there. I know not what we could have done to garner favour from such a one, but I thank the Valar for sending her to us. Praise the Valar for the Green Witch of Rohan! The Shield-Witch of Rohan!"

"Shield-Witch! Shield-Witch! Shield-Witch!" shouted the riders, banging their spears in approval once more.

The sight and sound of hope rang through the Rohirric camp once more as Elfhelm approached his faithful steed and swiftly mounted the horse.

Whatever happened that night, however many lived or nay; he knew that with allies as formidable as the Green Witch and Archibald, Saruman's days were numbered.

**XXX**

Exactly one hour after despatching the dolphin Patronus, Augusta was still following the sound of her dashing companion's galloping horse across the flat, grassy plains as they raced towards the Fords of Isen.

What an adventurous day she was having! Who would have thought that blasting the mindless minions of Isengard into oblivion could be so...invigorating? Despite the fact that it was well past her bedtime, she wasn't bothered in the slightest at having to forego the pleasure of her (not very effective) beauty sleep; not when she had the chance to scupper the tyrannical machinations of the silliest wizard she'd ever met. In fact, the thought of the look on Saruman's face if he found out that she and her adopted nephew had been causing havoc among his well-ordered (but disgracefully malodorous) troops for the past eight hours was enough to make her smile.

And who would have thought that her splendidly-mannered, genteel companion was such a dab hand with a sword? Why, he must have laid ruin to almost a hundred orcs already!

"You are terribly efficient with that blade of yours, young man," she commented as they raced through the starlit night towards their next destination. "I've never seen one person dispose of so many others without the aid of a wand, before..."

Although, now that she thought about it, she hadn't actually _seen_ him dispose of anyone either - he was still under the Disillusionment charm.

"...you must have relieved at least a hundred of the horrible creatures of their miserable existences!"

"One hundred and thirty eight, if I am not mistaken," stated Glorfindel with savage delight. The elf had not had so much fun in battle since...well, ever, actually. There was a lot to be said for invisibility (he had briefly debating remaining in this state for the rest of his natural life - the possibilities for teasing the twin sons of Elrond and the rather staid Erestor were endless. But then he remembered that he was immortal and thought the better of it). "And seven Wargs, also."

Ah, yes: Wargs. If they weren't the most ridiculous excuses for horses that she'd ever seen! All that wiry hair and rows of sharp yellow teeth - they rather reminded her of Goyle Sr, (but with four legs). And they were vicious enough to be related to the stupid man, too! Snapping, snarling and spitting as if they couldn't wait to sink their gnashers into a prime bit of Rohan beefsteak. Of course, quite a few of them would be deprived of that sadistic pleasure, now that she'd Transfigured them (and their ugly riders) into mountain goats - then delicately averted her gaze as the remaining wargs spotted them and promptly ripped them to pieces.

"Splendid work, young man! No doubt you will soon have the opportunity to add to that impressive figure once we reach the Fords," exclaimed the elderly witch (sounding rather like a battle-hardened general).

"We may not have to wait much longer, Aunt. Already I see the next battalion of Saruman's forces less than a half-mile away. The Fords are not much farther ahead of them..."

His voice trailed off for a few seconds and she knew he was raising himself up in the stirrups to gaze as far into the night as he could. How very handy that she had a guide with such excellent eyesight! It really was proving to be quite the advantage, because he often spotted their next targets long before they were within firing range - which gave _her_ plenty of time to prepare the burning boulders for launch.

"The battle at the Fords is begun! Ai, Elbereth! There are _several thousands _of the Enemy scattered across the banks already! The cavalry before us must be the rear guard racing to join those already attacking the Rohirrim!"

Oh, dear. Several thousand? One witch and a bloodthirsty (but splendidly-mannered) nephew would not be enough to stop that lot!

Not that it would stop them trying...

"Gracious! How are our horsey friends faring?"

"Not well. Their numbers are not nearly as great - they struggle to keep the Orcs back from the forts which guard the banks...nay! They are now being engaged in battle! Saruman's servants are attacking the forts...they have already crossed the water! The island is taken...wait! The Rohirrim fight valiantly on the eastern bank, but they will be crushed ere long!"

Crushed? Not if Augusta Longbottom had anything to say about it (and she had _plenty_ to say about it)! She had come to think of the Rohirrim as something akin to splendidly-dentured, brawny Australians (she couldn't wait to meet one), and as such, it was her duty as a (magical) subject of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II to dash to the aid of her beleaguered Commonwealth brethren!

"Well, then. I think it's time you and I set about doing a little crushing of our own, don't you think?" she asked, patting her bottomless pockets.

He heard the rattle of stones and grinned enthusiastically. "Indeed! Come, Aunt Augusta. Let us give the hordes of Isengard a night to remember once more!"

With that, they rode off towards the next battalion of unsuspecting brutes.

The first burning boulder crashed into Saruman's finest a mere ten minutes later.

And it wasn't only orcs and uruk-hai who went fleeing from the devastation they caused: screaming, swarthy, axe-wielding men in shabby dark tunics followed right behind their ugly brothers-in-arms as flames licked through the once tightly-packed ranks of the company.

She already knew from Floor-kindle that they were Dunlendings, or wildmen, from the lands west of Rohan; traditional enemies of the horse-lords. But it still filled her with disgust that any man - foe or not - could throw in their lot with beings as unnatural as orcs, uruk-hai and wargs.

Well. Men or not, the Dunlendings had made their bed, and now they were jolly well going to have to lie in it! And although her innate sense of humanity dictated that she not aim for them with deliberate intent, if the stupid fellows happened to _get in the way _of one of her curses, then they only had themselves to blame for having such poor taste in bedfellows, didn't they?

With that in mind, she followed the trail of headless corpses and limbless wounded that Floor-kindle left in his wake (her nephew was having far too much fun for it to be healthy - perhaps she should have a little chat with him later, just to assure herself that she hadn't created a monster?), knowing that he was never far out of her reach. Celebrithil nimbly dodged the fleeing fiends that bled from the main cavalry as her rider's boulders crashed again and again into the heart of their ranks.

The curses and spells flew thick and fast (and ear-splittingly loud) from her lips as she neared the battlefield proper. Six goats with crude helmets strapped to their heads ran braying towards the distant mountains in an effort to flee the carnage. Well-aimed Reductos and Defodios carved deep gashes into the ground, sending orcs and men flying in every direction. A sudden flash of lightning struck multiple targets and fried them in their boots - the smell of roasting flesh attracted a pack of wargs and soon, flash-fried orc was the dish of the day at the Café de la Isen.

"TASTE THE MITHRIL OF AN ELVEN BLADE, ENEMIES OF ROHAN!" yelled her blissfully happy foster-nephew from somewhere in the distance. "FEEL THE WRATH OF GONDOLIN AND IMLADRIS FAIR AS IT CARVES THEIR ANGER ON YOUR BLACKENED HEARTS!"

Oh dear! She _had_ created a monster. Elrond might be a tad upset with her when she returned a manic serial-killer in place of his sweet-tempered friend. Poor Floor-kindle would have to be carted off to that long-stay unit in Valinor for some intensive healing. He might even find himself sharing a room with Elrond's mother - or his wife (which might upset her former host even more)! The little chat with her travelling companion was beginning to look more necessary as the day wore on.

However, she wasn't able to have a word in his poor, deformed ear for quite some time. The elderly witch was far too busy trying to lighten the burden on her (probably dashing) Rohirric friends. She Blasted and Stunned for over two hours from the relative safety of one of the small hills at the edge of the battlefield, stopping occasionally to deflect waves of arrows aimed in her general direction. The enemy forces had been vainly attempting to fight back ever since she launched her one-woman assault (Floor-kindle having left for the battlefield proper a while ago to wreak his own brand of havoc directly in their midst - she could hear his gleeful yells from the hilltop). One small group of about twenty uruk-hai and Dunlendings had actually isolated her location and made a rather foolish dash towards the hill. For ten short minutes she was under attack from fire-tipped arrows as they attempted to scale the hill and slay their invisible enemy.

Unfortunately for them, her Shield charm protected her effectively. What's more, they only made it half way up the hill before she sent them all crashing back down with the aid of burning rock (which was quickly becoming her weapon of choice. They were so versatile! One could throw them in the air, or roll them down an incline. How very handy).

But no matter how hard Augusta tried, for every foe she incapacitated, there were at least another dozen to take his place. The night wore on and she became more and more exhausted with her efforts. Her eyes stung, her throat was raw from yelling and cursing and she knew she must look a terrible fright (the only comfort was that none could witness her state of great unkemptness, Disillusioned as she was).

A loud wave of orcish roars bellowed off to her left and she stopped hurling boulders long enough to follow the sound with her eyes. To her dismay, it became clear that the island in the middle of the Isen was overrun. Saruman's unnatural army had swept onto the east bank and were attacking what appeared to be a ring of wooden shields.

The Rohirrim!

In a desperate attempt to stop any more orcs crossing the river, she abandoned the hill and raced across the battlefield itself on Celebrithil, hurling boulders as near to the banks of the Isen as she dared. Even Floor-kindle had been silent for a while, though she could still hear his occasional grunt of exertion when he felled another enemy.

But, inevitably, the edge of the battlefield began to shrink away from her as the overwhelming force of enemies finally succeeded in overthrowing the inferior numbers of Rohirrim, and Saruman's army surged its way passed the ever-nearing forts. She watched in dismay as they followed the first wave over the stepping stones in the Isen and across the island towards the Westemnet. Another roar of victory followed in their wake and the clanging of multiple swordfights rang through the night air when they encountered the last, desperate defence of mounted riders.

The battle thereafter was short.

Within half an hour, the huge horde of chanting, baying orcs had completely crossed to the eastern bank and reformed into neat, orderly ranks as they charged out of sight.

For almost a minute, the silence that followed their departure seemed deafening to Augusta's ears. Eventually, they were filled with the rushing sound of the wind that blew over the plains. The wind carried the stench of fire and death with it, forcing her to cast a Bubble-Head charm in order to breath without retching. She cautiously navigated Celebrithil over the corpse-strewn plain, sidestepping craters (caused mainly by her boulders) and passing through clouds of thick smoke until they came to a halt by the ruins of one of the earthen forts. Bodies of orcs and men littered the ground beside it.

Dismounting, the elderly witch carefully picked her way over grass slick with blood. A few of Saruman's (now even smellier) servants were strewn lifelessly near the fort, but the main bulk of the dead were Rohirrim. Silver tunics were smeared red, ugly arrows protruded from chest wounds and not one of the poor chaps showed even the smallest bit of life. She spotted a hint of yellow-gold under the corpse of a hulking uruk sprawled by the base of the fort. Moving across to it, she Levitated the creature away and revealed the body of a glassy-eyed young man. In one hand, he still gripped the wooden green shield he had used to protect his body from enemy blows, and upon it was the running figure of a white horse. But it was not a blow to his chest that had killed him, in the end. It was the black-shafted arrow lodged deep in his neck.

Sighing, she placed her hand over his eyes and closed the lids with her fingers.

It was not how she had pictured meeting her first Rohirrim.

"AUNT AUGUSTA! MY LADY LONGBOTTOM - SHOW YOURSELF!"

Floor-kindle's cry of concern almost made her leap out of her sensibly-heeled shoes.

Dash it all! Did he have to shout?

Oh, yes: he did. The poor fellow was still under the effects of the Sonorus, after all.

Augusta gave the dead Rohirrim soldier a gentle pat on the cheek, then lifted herself up before moving back to Celebrithil. She briefly debated calling out with her enhanced voice, but her throat was too raw. Raising her wand to it, she whispered a Quietus, then lifted the Disillusionment charm from both herself and the pretty grey mare, before shooting red sparks into the air. It would not be long before Floor-kindle's excellent vision allowed him to locate her now.

"There now, my brave lady," she croaked as she stroked Celebrithil's flowing mane (after removing the Bubble-Head charm - the horse was trying to nibble it off with her teeth). "Haven't you been a good girl today, hmm? All that fighting and shouting and blasting going on all around you - and not a word of complaint!"

Celebrithil whickered softly, nudging the witch's neck with her velvety nose.

"Yes, I know. I was doing most of the blasting and shouting. But if it's any consolation, I think I may be losing my voice. So you may very well have some peace and quiet for the next few days. What do you say to that?"

The horse said nothing to that.

"Ah. Pretending you're shy, are you? Well, let's see if I can coax a word or two with the help of a carrot."

She stepped round to the saddlebags and fished inside one until her hand closed over a treat. She pulled out an apple, stepped back to the horse and offered it to her. Her mount whickered happily and was soon crunching on the juicy fruit.

"AUNT! YOU ARE SAFE!"

Although she was expecting the arrival of her dashing, serial-killer nephew, the volume still made her jump.

"Gracious, young man!" she rasped, "are you trying to give me heart failure? Where are you - no! Don't tell me! Give me your hand. Ah, there you are. One moment: _Quietus."_

It was a relief to hear his musical voice return to its proper volume.

"Are you well? Your voice is laboured - have you taken a hurt?"

"No, my good fellow. I am perfectly healthy. Simply exhausted. Now, let me lift that Disillusionment charm - no need for it now, after all."

She fumbled up the length of his arm until she identified his head, then rapped it smartly with her wand. Within a few seconds, her newest (and only) nephew stood before her. The elderly witch surveyed him critically: his shining blond hair was a little dishevelled and his white robes streaked with dirt, but there were no apparent injuries (much to her relief). His handsome face was smiling down at her without a care in the world.

"I am well, Aunt," he said warmly, lifting his arms to envelop her in a hug.

Completely taken by surprise, Augusta allowed him to embrace her for several seconds before he released her to offer his arm.

"Come, you are fatigued. You must rest."

Rest? Where the deuce were they supposed to rest on this pock-marked, smoke-filled, body-strewn plain?

She took a deep breath (to recover her equilibrium after her close encounter of the affectionate kind) before setting her features into their usual look of faint disapproval.

"Perhaps it would be a better idea if I buried some of these poor Rohirrim first," she said, letting her gaze wander over the lifeless forms strewn between the forts and the riverbank. "I simply can't bear to know they're lying forgotten out here, while I'm tucked up safely in my bedroll and having a quick forty winks."

To her surprise, Floor-kindle's voice was unusually firm.

"Nay. You will take my arm and allow me to lead you to the shelter beyond yonder hills."

He pointed towards the small hills she had used earlier as a vantage point, before continuing:

"There we may find some rest from our endeavours this day."

"Now wait just a minute, young ma..."

"I will brook no arguments, my Lady!" he chided, using his former mode of address to command her attention (and thoroughly annoying her into the bargain). "The Men of Rohan that lay on this plain are beyond our aid now. They would not begrudge you a night's sleep after your efforts on their behalf. The dawn will bring their brethren to tend to them; such is always the way."

"But there are far too many dead for them to bury alone!" she protested with a croak.

Glorfindel gazed at her in an unnervingly calm manner.

"If there are too many for them, then there are certainly too many for you."

"But I am a witch..."

"One who is greatly fatigued."

"I could have them buried within an hour or two..."

"You will be senseless within an hour or two."

"Are you calling me an idiot?"

"Nay - but no doubt I shall _within an hour or two_, if I have to carry your unconscious form half a mile across the plain because you did not heed my plea to rest."

Augusta huffed and took his arm.

"You may count yourself very lucky that I didn't bring my handbag with me, young man."

"And why is that, Aunt?" he asked (smirking - which annoyed her again).

"Because if I had, I would have clobbered you with it."

Now the elf chuckled softly.

"If you have such a strong desire to 'clobber' me, you need only magic another of the flaming orbs to strike me down."

"Don't be ridiculous. I couldn't do that..."

"I am glad to hear it," interrupted the elf, leading her back across the plain to the hills.

"...because you're standing far too close to me! I might very well flatten myself into the bargain. Or burn the coat off my back!"

"Your concern for my well-being is touching."

"You are a fussy young scallywag."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

And with that, they walked the rest of the way across the pock-marked plain towards their resting place, where Asfaloth silently awaited them.

**XXX**

Shortly before dawn, Erkenbrand, Lord of the Deeping-coomb, held up a hand to halt the two hundred strong company of riders that had followed him back to the Fords of Isen. By rights, he should be racing across the Westfold to the various small towns and villages, rounding up more riders to send to the defence of Helm's Deep. It was the first place Saruman's foul minions would strike at if they succeeded in crushing the resistance at the Fords.

But that was before his vision-dream.

He had never considered himself far-sighted before. In fact, not once in all the years of his life had the robust Rohirrim experienced a dream more unsettling than that which had visited him during the brief nap he had stolen yester-noon (apart from the time when he dreamt he was wed to an orc in a bright yellow dress - the memory of it still made him nauseous). It was as if a gentle voice had called him to return to the place he had left in the hands of Grimbold the day before. Over and over the voice called to him, urging him to revisit the Fords before taking his men to Helm's Deep. So insistent had it been, that when he awoke, he did not question its authority. To the bemusement of the riders he had gathered thus far, he commanded them all to join him on his journey to the Fords and they had spent the hours since riding to Grimbold's defence.

But when they arrived, the Fords were deserted.

Not only that, but it was clear a great battle had taken place - and that the Rohirrim had not been victorious.

His mare, Windlyft (one of the few black horses they had managed to save from Sauron's raids), carried him across the fords in the river to the small island. A few orcish corpses were floating lifelessly in the Isen, but they were outnumbered two to one by the dead Rohirrim who had fallen in defence of the island itself. Green shields had been hacked by orcish axes, Rohirric blood shed by orcish blades and arrows - some of the men looked as if they had been savaged by beasts. Great claw marks raked the faces of at least two blond horsemen, their necks ripped apart by massive jaws.

It could only mean one thing: wargs!

The tall man sneered in disgust. Curse the filth of Saruman! When he found the unnatural wolves of Isengard, he would see to it that they were skewered upon the spears of Rohan and roasted on open spits!

He raised his eyes and gazed across the water to the Enedwaith. Thick plumes of smoke were rising from smouldering rocks all over the eastern plain. Small fires were burning in their wakes, as if the rocks had crashed and rolled after being hurled - through the air?

Nay, that could not be. Could it? Had Saruman despatched some new weapon to throw fire-rocks at them?

It was a worrying thought.

However, as his gaze skimmed the battlefield, he observed that not one of the giant boulders were anywhere near the Rohirric forts.

It was a puzzle. If the traitorous Istar had the weapons to wield such destruction, why had his forces not used them to crush the forts before taking the island?

His gaze slipped over the remains of the fallen and he frowned at the deep gouges in the earth, then scratched his head as his eyes spotted half a dozen goat corpses, before finally gasping in shock as - two hundred yards away - his gaze locked on several decapitated uruk-hai...

...floating upside-down in mid-air.

Mearas' mane! What in the name of Helm Hammerhand had happened this night?

"Éobard! Guthwini!" he barked, and two of the riders who had joined him on the island rode across to join him. "Take a dozen of the riders and gather our fallen. Do them the honour of burying them by the Prince's mound, if it has not been defiled by the enemy. Hafold, you and the others will fol..."

"My lord Erkenbrand!" cried one of the other men. "Riders approach from the north!"

Spears were being grabbed and pointed before he even had the chance to turn around. Two hundred men formed a circle of shields to defend their leader from the new threat, but the precaution was unnecessary. The riders were of their own kind.

"Who goes there?" called Erkenbrand, shouldering his great red shield and pushing his way through the troops to watch the small group of riders stop and dismount.

"Is that _Erkenbrand_, Lord of the Westfold? I thought you to be half-way across the Westemnet, lord!" cried a familiar voice.

"It is I, Grimbold," the tall man replied as the Marshal stepped down the east bank and waded through the water until he stood before him on the island. "I mean still to journey thus, but not yet. Why have you returned?"

"The Men of my company and I come to bury our fallen."

"This is all that is left of your companies?" he demanded in shock, surveying the fifty riders across the water.

"Nay. Forgive me. I meant to say that _some_ have returned with me. I have ordered the rest - over six hundred strong - to remain by the eaves of Fangorn until I return."

A wave of relief swept through Erkenbrand as he studied the man before him. Grimbold was of middling years, a hardy warrior and a cunning leader. Together with Elfhelm, he had already successfully defended the Fords from an onslaught by Saruman's agents. This was the main reason Erkenbrand had left the two men in charge of the defences a second time - though this time, it would appear that they had not been as successful.

"You look greatly fatigued, Grimbold," said the taller man sympathetically.

"The battle was long and hard, lord. We were attacked at noon yesterday, but held out until sunset, before we had to retreat to the eastern bank. But an hour after midnight, a battalion of Saruman's Orcs forced the crossing and surrounded us. It was another hour later before we were able to retreat. Alas, that we had to abandon the Fords! But we lost many Men - almost one-third the company."

One-third of the company? That was three hundred men! The news was enough to shake the brawny leader to his core.

"Though," continued Grimbold, "I believe that it would have been nearer half, were it not for the trials our cursed foes were experiencing on the western bank."

That caught Erkenbrand's attention.

"Would these 'trials' have aught to do with those?" he enquired, twisting in his seat and pointing a finger at the bizarrely suspended uruk-hai on the other side of the river.

"Helm's hammer! That I did not notice before! I tell you, Erkenbrand, had I not been engaged in battle, I would gladly have stood and watched the happenings yonder! But what I did see was enough to puzzle me greatly. Our enemies were under attack from behind by a...nay, perhaps I was mistaken! Yet, it sounded as if..."

Grimbold trailed off, shaking his head and rubbing the back of his neck. A dozen of the men who had accompanied Erkenbrand across the river crowded around them, jostling the newcomer and waiting to hear what he had to say.

"Did I not give orders to bury the dead?" snapped their commander, causing a flurry of activity as they all departed to deal with their duties.

"Now, tell me: what is it you thought you heard?"

The older man looked up, almost apologetically, before saying:

"A woman. I thought I heard a woman's voice screaming at the Enemy. And not just a woman, but an Elf, also."

"_A_ _woman_?" barked Erkenbrand in disbelief. It was loud enough for all activity within a ten metre radius to cease. He peered into Grimbold's eyes, expecting to see wide black pupils that would indicate the ageing man had taken a blow to the head, but Grimbold's eyes were as clear and grey as ever.

"You are certain, Grimbold? Perhaps it was no more than the screams of the dying? You and I both know how piercing they are. Perhaps it was some of your riders, flanking the Enemy in secret and attacking from behind? They may have been discovered, then slaughtered for their bravery?"

"Nay, Erkenbrand," insisted his subordinate. "I was not the only one who heard her. Every archer on the front line heard her, also. We heard her call them - you will laugh, I am certain - but she seemed rather distressed at their unkempt appearance. She yelled at them for being 'thoroughly disgraceful' and 'abominably malodorous'. She claimed she would 'sterilise the stink from their unwashed hides'. I had no idea what she meant by that, but it was not long after when the flaming orbs began to crash amidst their rear ranks. Coloured lights shot across the battlefield and..._I saw a Warg turn into a goat._ And his rider with him! Two small goats - one in orcish garb - fleeing for their lives towards the White Mountains! I know not if they made it."

Erkenbrand did. He had spotted their corpses not five minutes before. But he was not wont to elaborate - and neither would he have had the chance. Grimbold was possessed with a manic need to relate every extraordinary thing he had seen or heard between his own clashes with the enemy forces.

"And did I tell you of the Elf? His voice was like a war song, calling out his wrath in Rohan's name! Many enemies came limbless across the Isen that did not engage _our _infantry. Dunlendings and Orcs, bleeding from stumps and begging their kindred's aid! I suspect many more lie dead on the Enedwaith by his blade alone!"

"Do you mean to say that the Enemy was under attack by a lone Elf and a woman?" asked the Lord of the Westfold incredulously.

Grimbold lifted his head, straightened his shoulders and looked his superior officer straight in the eye.

"I mean to say that I think they were under attack by a mighty Elven warrior and a...a Sorceress."

The older man's speculation seemed so ludicrous that Erkenbrand threw back his head and laughed. It was several minutes before he could compose himself enough to respond to his (rather irate-looking) subordinate.

"Forgive me, old friend. I thought I heard you say 'Sorceress'!"

He chuckled again.

Grimbold was not amused.

"You heard correctly, lord. I did say 'Sorceress'. I have thought long and hard about what I saw and heard this night. I thought at first as you did: that perhaps some of our forces had crept up behind the Enemy. But all of my Riders were accounted for - even the dead. Then I speculated that perhaps Elfhelm had succeeded in overthrowing the Enemy forces farther north, then crossed to the west bank to flank the battalions which attacked us. I even sent one of my swiftest Riders north to check this, but he returned with an arrow in his shoulder and told me that Elfhelm's companies are under a siege of their own! And even had it been his _or_ my forces on the Enedwaith - no Rohirrim can make rocks fly through the sky! No mere Man can cause a creature to change his shape! Not even the mightiest Elven Lord can make lightning flash again and again over Enemy heads - and _only_ over Enemy heads! There is no other explanation for the power we witnessed. There was a Sorceress in yonder plain - and she may yet be there; for none of my Riders have seen her leave to follow the Orcs!"

So adamant was the greying man, so earnest his tone and so direct was his gaze, that Erkenbrand found his own eyes wandering west.

Could it be? Could there be a sorceress on the Enedwaith, watching them all this very minute? But the idea was so preposterous! Yet, what else could she be? Grimbold was right: no man or elven lord could cast burning rocks into the sky. Only an Istar had the power to achieve such a feat.

Or the sorceress from beyond Fangorn!

That was it! The solution to the puzzle - the elf witch from the Dwimordene had left her enchanted land to come to the aid of Rohan!

Hmm.

Even to him, that sounded ridiculous. Why would she leave her magic forest to help a people who were wary of her? All in Rohan knew of her existence, for her forest was just beyond the northern borders of the Wold, but none dared venture near it. It was said that those who entered the Golden Wood were never seen again. She would never leave the safety of her realm - accompanied by a single warrior - to come to the defence of a people who had always been suspicious of her.

Yet, what other explanation could there be? She was the only sorceress in Middle Earth.

Deciding that there had been enough speculation, the mighty Lord of the Westfold came to a decision: if the elven sorceress had decided (for reasons known only to herself and her companion) that she would like nothing better than to leave her haunted forest (merely to haunt the steps of his enemy) then the least he could do was find out why.

"I find that I am now in accordance with your thoughts, Grimbold," he said softly, tapping his chin with a long finger.

Grimbold sighed in relief.

"Furthermore, I want you to send one of your fastest Riders to Edoras with news of the day's happenings - including the intervention of the Sorceress and her mysterious companion."

"Aye, lord. It shall be done."

"As for me, I will be taking a short trip across the Isen."

"You intend to seek them out?" asked Grimbold cautiously.

"Indeed. I shall sound the horn of friendship and see if they reply; for if they fought on our behalf, we owe them our thanks. Or did you not say that you could have lost half your forces without their intervention?"

"That is so, lord."

"Then my mind is made up. Go, see to your Riders. They should follow after me in one half hour if they wish still to bury our dead. My own troops shall assist you when they have finished their grim task here. And whether or not I find this Sorceress, we shall rally all remaining forces together, seek out any other we may find, then ride to Helm's Deep this night. If Saruman's Orcs march down the Westemnet, then it shall be the first point of attack. We must aid those that guard it, lest they be overwhelmed and crushed!"

With that, he left the lesser Marshal to carry out his orders, spoke a few commands to his captain, Hafold, then navigated Windlyft across the fords towards the western bank.

Five minutes later, his trusty mare had him safely ensconced on the western plain and carried him past the earthen forts strewn with the bodies of his landsmen. As much as he wanted to stop and honour the fallen, he did not. They would already know honour in the halls of their fathers, and Hafold and his other men would be along soon enough to see to a proper burial for them.

By the time he was far enough into the battlefield for his own satisfaction, the sun had already started to rise in the east. Its rays soon flooded the plain with light, allowing him a clearer view of his surroundings. There were deep furrows in the earth where boulders had smashed into the grass then rolled several metres before stopping. The grass itself was burnt to a crisp.

As were over three score and ten orcs and hillmen.

He passed the floating uruk-hai corpses, giving them a wide berth. By the Valar, but they reeked of foulness and death! 'Twas no wonder the elven sorceress had been so disgusted by them!

A few yards later, he reined Windlyft to a halt. Taking the horn from his shoulder, he took a deep breath and blew into it. A long, sweet, clear note boomed across the plain, inviting friendly ears to harken to its call and join him if they wished.

At least, he hoped they found it inviting - if they were yet present amidst this carnage of war.

He only had to wait five minutes to discover that Grimbold's speculation was correct. Two riders appeared from behind the small hills to his right and made good speed towards him. In less than two minutes they were close enough for him make out their features. The taller, stately figure was male. He was garbed in a silvery white tunic and a long white cloak, his golden hair fell gracefully down his chest, and his face shone with the fairness akin to all Elvenkind. But as impressive as the regal elf was, it was the figure next to him that caused Erkenbrand's jaw to drop...

Mearas' mane! Was that an _old _woman?

Unable to do anything but gape, he watched as the (decidedly un-elvish) female trotted contentedly next to her stately companion, looking for all the world as if she had every right to be there. She was clearly not as accomplished on horseback as her elven friend (her seat was a little too stiff), but her back was as straight and proud as his. Unlike him, her face was lined with the age of mortals, and her steel-grey hair was swept away from her face (apart from the strands sticking up wildly at the back - he wondered absently if she was aware of that).

They approached him on their (very impressive) elven steeds, drawing them to a halt a few feet away.

"Good morning to you, young man! Tell me: are you a Rohirrim?" came the polite enquiry from the old woman.

What an extraordinary first question! What else would he be? Middle Earth's best-looking orc?

"Yes, Aunt, he is. Do you not recall that I said it was a _Rohirric_ horn that called us?"

"Oh, of course. You'll have to excuse me, my good fellow, but I'm never at my most alert first thing in the morning - at least, not for the first five seconds. After that, I'm as sharp as I always am!"

Erkenbrand was speechless. Had the elf just called her 'aunt'? How could that be? It was obvious to any fool that they were not of the same race! Unless the sorceress in the Golden Wood was so ancient, that even _she_ could not defy the touch of time upon her face!

Remembering that he had called out to them, he shook his mind free of idle speculation and spoke.

"Greetings, my Lady, my Lord. I am Erkenbrand, Lord of the Westfold of Rohan," he said, offering a polite nod.

"Mae Govannen, Erkenbrand," said the elf, smiling in greeting. "I am called..."

"Archibald," interrupted the woman.

"..._Glorfindel_ of Imladris, which you may know better as Rivendell," finished the elf firmly (with a touch of colour to his cheeks). "And this is my..."

He cocked an eyebrow at the woman, who cocked one right back at him, before continuing.

"...this is my Aunt Augusta, also known as the Green Witch."

His aunt! The elf had said it himself - the woman was his aunt. And a _witch_, no less!

But what a strange name she had! Was it elvish? She did not look like an elvish witch. Her ears were as rounded as any Child of Men's. And she was significantly smaller than her nephew - in fact, she was the smallest woman he had ever met! He would be surprised if she reached the height of his chest (he was almost seven feet tall).

Unable to pronounce her (in his opinion) very strange name (what was it again - _Orc-hurter_?), Erkenbrand stuck with what was polite.

"I am honoured to meet you, Green Witch, Lord Glorfindel," he said, nodding one more. "Though I would that it were in happier circumstance and in fairer place, given what has passed this night."

He indicated the grim plain with a wave of his hand, then addressed them once more.

"I am led to believe that you both were present for the battle which took place here not a few hours since?"

"That is correct, young man!" stated the old woman firmly. "You weren't here yourself?"

"Nay. I was abroad gathering more Riders to lead to the Deeping-coomb. But my Marshal, Grimbold, was here. He suspects that we owe a great debt of service to you both. Indeed, he claims that you saved the lives of many of our soldiers yester-eve. Is this true?"

"Well, we certainly did our best," replied the Green Witch primly. "Though I'm afraid we weren't able to save the poor chaps at the forts. Those ghastly orcs had already been at them by the time we arrived."

Erkenbrand's eyebrows shot up. "You have been to the forts?"

"Yes, my good man. Last night - well, very early this morning. After the battle was over. I had to free one of your men from underneath an enormous uruk who'd landed on top of him. Of course, the poor boy was already dead when he was flattened, but it didn't seem right to leave him underneath that smelly blighter."

His eyebrows shot up further. The little woman did not look capable of lifting her hand, never mind a fully grown uruk.

"That was most considerate of you, Lady. Please accept my gratitude for the service. I hope you did not injure yourself in the endeavour?"

At first, she looked a little confused by his question, but then he saw her face lighten in understanding.

"Gracious, no! I didn't lift the ghastly creature with my own two hands! I used my wand."

"Beg pardon: wand?"

She nodded, pulling a slim cylinder of wood from her pocket and waving it over his shoulder. He twisted his head and looked over his shoulder just in time to see the suspended uruk-hai drop to the ground.

"Yes. My wand. I use it to perform magic. I believe you chaps are more familiar with the word 'staff', but it's basically the same thing. I do apologise about leaving those grim fellows hanging like that, but I hadn't the time to drop them last night. Too much happening, you know. They were actually alive when I swept the rug out from under them, but my nephew couldn't resist the easy targets and, well, they sort of lost their heads a few minutes later. Very Marie Antoinette. You have heard of Marie Antoinette, haven't you? Terribly fond of cake, she was. A pleasure which helped to kill her in the end, ironically."

Marie who?

The Rohirrim returned his wide-eyed gaze to the little old lady. "No apology is required of you for the service of slaying our Enemy, my Lady. But, might I enquire as to why you intervened in the battle on Rohan's behalf? Please do not misunderstand me: regardless of its unfortunate outcome, we are most grateful. I merely wondered what would bring you so near the Gap in these dark times and why you would stay to fight in a battle that was not of your making - one where you were so clearly outnumbered?"

To his surprise, the elf and the woman shared a smile.

"We have business in Gondor. Passing through the Gap was the swiftest way to reach Minas Tirith," replied the elf. "The battle was underway when we arrived at the Fords - a battle which was not of _your _making either, mellon nin. It was that of the traitor Wizard, Saruman. As he is as much our Enemy as yours, we could not pass by without intervening on your behalf."

He was astounded by their generosity. A high-born warrior-elf and a witch - a little old _woman_ - coming to the aid of his land, merely because they shared a common foe?

"I admit to astonishment," he confessed. "And delight, also, for I see you have slain a goodly number of the faithless Wizard's ranks. Were it not for your joint effort, there would be many more of Saruman's unnatural spawn stealing across our lands to raze our villages to the ground!"

The witch cast her sharp blue eyes over the battlefield and huffed.

"Yes, well. I suspect the majority of the slaying was down to Archibald..."

"_Glorfindel! _We are not in Gondor yet, Aunt!"

"Oh, do stop pouting! It really doesn't become you, you know. How many times have I told you that you'll have to get used to the name? Or do you want the good people of Gondor to think ill of us both? As I was saying; Archibald is rather a dab hand with a sword. Quite the master carver, actually. How many did you send to the afterlife this time, young man?"

Erkenbrand had a very strange urge to laugh as they bickered with each other. What a strange pair they were! The elf looked like he could easily snap his aunt in two and the aunt looked as if she would rap his knuckles with her staff if he made the foolish attempt. Yet there was an undeniable (if very peculiar) bond between them. For all their sniping, the elf still hovered over the witch protectively as she bullied him into accepting a truly hideous title (for some unknown reason). As for the woman, she reached over the small space which separated them to dust some dirt from his sleeve, before patting his arm in satisfaction.

The elf stopped glaring long enough to answer her question.

"I lost count after one hundred. But that does not include the wounded."

"Show off," replied the Green Witch with unmistakable fondness. It made the elf smile.

"Yet you slew more than I with your spells, Aunt. You easily equalled my count with the flame-rocks alone!"

"Well, those 'flame-rocks' needn't have slain any, if the stupid fellows had left when I warned them. But, idiots rarely take the advice of their elders - and Saruman's idiots are no different to any others I've met. Which has been quite a lot, actually. I seem to attract them. Present company excepted, of course."

"Of course," drawled her nephew dryly.

The extraordinary couple turned to face him once more and smiled in unison (the elf beamed, the witch grimaced).

How lightly they spoke of the service they had rendered his people! As if it had been naught more than what was expected of them!

Yet Rohan had not expected it - and neither had he. How could he repay an elven lord and a (possibly) half-elven witch (though, clearly, she had inherited the mannish half more than the elven) for the service they had rendered his land? If he had the time, he would see them escorted to the Golden Hall and honoured before Théoden King himself! He would have minstrels compose a rousing song of their great deeds to be sung by their descendants for generations to come, at they same time they composed the lays to honour the fallen!

But he did _not_ have the time - and neither did Rohan. Already, Saruman's forces were well on their way to the last great defences of his people. Rohan's survival may depend upon his ability to round up as many warriors as could be found on the Westemnet before leading them to a final, decisive battle at Helm's Deep.

A sudden thought struck him.

Perhaps that was why the mysterious voice from his dream had urged him here? Perhaps he had found as many warriors as he would ever need in the guise of one elven lord and a little old woman?

Nay. Surely not? As much as he could see the male willingly risking immortal life and limb at Helm's Deep, the thought of asking the delicate female to once more intervene on Rohan's behalf did not sit right with him - witch or nay. If a full-elf could lose his life to an arrow, then a half-elf most certainly would. How could he bear to look upon the dead face of this genteel lady, knowing that his request had cost her life?

Then again, she had survived a night of horror no gentle woman should be witness to - indeed, she had _caused_ most of it on this side of the Isen, if Grimbold spoke truly.

And he knew that his Marshall did speak truly. His own eyes had seen orcish (and goat) corpses lying in their droves all over the battlefield (some of which still stood; smoking in their boots like Middle Earth's ugliest statues - possibly the result of the lightning flashes Grimbold had been so impressed with).

Dare he ask them for their aid once more?

With a mental shake, he brought himself to his senses. What was he thinking? Here were two travellers on their way to Gondor - an aunt and her nephew visiting relatives (most likely her mannish ones). Already their long journey from the elven land of Rivendell had been interrupted to aid his people. They had not needed to do so, but such was their empathy and honour, that they had. Now, however, the battle was over.

_Their _battle was over.

He would not ask them to risk their lives yet again for a land that was not their own. It would be unfair and dishonourable.

"Lady Witch, my Lord, I have not the time I would wish to honour your efforts in Rohan's name this night, for the evil hand of Isengard stretches its foul fingers across the Westfold to pluck at the heart of our lands as we speak. Soon, my Men and I must depart to aid our brothers-in-arms at Helm's Deep. But know this: for the service you have shown us this night, ever shall we honour you. For the sons of Rohan whose lives you saved, ever shall we thank you. For all those who shall be spared the horrors that these dead enemies would surely have inflicted upon them, ever shall we praise you. This day, I name you friends of Rohan evermore. If - nay, _when_ we slay the Enemy that seeks to steal us from our very homes and enslave us to the will of Saruman, know that we shall seek you out and see you rewarded for your deeds."

"This you have done already, Lord of the Westfold. There is no reward greater than friendship, and no friendship greater than that forged in battle against a common foe," declared the elf.

"Absolutely," agreed his (tiny) aunt. "We appreciate both your gratitude and your friendship - but especially your friendship. One can never have too many friends, you know. Especially ones that have such beautiful teeth."

Erkenbrand had been about to smile when she mentioned how pleased she was to have his friendship, but it froze on his face when she mentioned his beautiful teeth.

Helm's hammer, but she was the oddest little woman he had ever met!

"And I must say, you really are a splendidly mannered chap! So very eloquent. You are a credit to your parents."

She could not know it, but his parents had been dead many years since. Even so, the tall blond was strangely touched to hear her say that.

"You are the very epitome of graciousness, my Lady," he replied softly.

She flushed slightly at his gratitude, and he was amused to see her fidget with her oddly-shaped cloak before straightening herself and sniffing imperiously.

"Well, then. I see that you've brought some of your men to help with the retrieval of your dead. May we offer our assistance? It would be no trouble, you know."

"Again, my thanks. But we are almost three hundred strong and the deed shall soon be dealt with. We know best the manner in which they must be laid - it is a service we have performed oft of late."

Even as he said this, he heard the thunder of his riders' horses as they crossed the Isen and made for the earthen forts where the majority of dead Rohirrim lay. They would bury their own and burn the enemy corpses before the hour was gone.

"I see. No doubt that is why all you came here so soon after the battle?"

"It is more by chance that I came here. I should have been on the other side of the river gathering more Men to aid in the fight."

The regal elf watched him curiously. "Indeed? Then what brought you here before your task was complete, if I may be so bold as to ask?"

Feeling rather foolish, Erkenbrand explained the voice in his dream and his subsequent urge to travel to the Fords at the earliest opportunity. Thankfully, the elf did not laugh at his foolishness.

"I do not think that your dream was by chance, Erkenbrand. I think it a gift from a friend."

"A gift?" he asked, slightly puzzled. Was the elf in earnest?

But Glorfindel (or Archibald, if his aunt had her way) had lost the smile which had graced his fair face and regarded him with sombre grey eyes.

"Yes. A gift of warning sent to you from one who has aided your people before, though you knew it not. You have heard of the Lady Galadriel?"

The elf witch from the Dwimordene? Who amongst his people had not heard of her! Erkenbrand nodded, curious to hear what his new elven friend had to say.

"Many years ago, when your ancestors flew to the aid of Cirion, Steward of Gondor, they were spared from the shadow of Dol Guldur by a mist sent from her lands to drive it back and thus hide them from Sauron's forces."

Mearas' mane! He spoke of Eorl's journey to the Field of Celebrant - where the actions of his army turned the tide of battle in Gondor's favour. It was because of that aid that Eorl had been granted the lands that the Rohirrim had called home ever since! And the elf witch from the Dwimordene had aided them?

Truly, Rohan had gained more friends this day than enemies!

"You believe that it was she who sent me this dream?" he asked in awe.

"I do. I named it the gift of warning because I believe she meant for you to encounter us ere we left - for leave we must. Our own errand is great enough that we cannot linger, otherwise we would have gladly joined you to still the flow of poison from Isengard that would taint your beauteous land. But now you have seen us, let us deliver the warning which may offer you some idea of the danger you are in:

"On our travels down the length of the Gap, we have encountered other foul forces of Saruman's. Already they have engaged your brethren farther north and - though the Rohirrim met with some success, both through their own skill and with our aid - more were marching down from Orthanc ere we left. Several battalions numbering over one thousand each. Given what we have seen there and witnessed here, I would guess there are almost nine and one-half thousand that you and your noble Men may have to contend with."

"I would guess that there are nearer nine thousand, myself," added the witch. "Or there will be by the time they discover the quicksand. And the tar pits. Not to mention the Enchanted Mist."

Erkenbrand was too busy reeling to hear what traps she had planted for the unsuspecting orcs. Nine thousand! In the name of Helm's mighty hammer! How was half such a number to be dealt with?

He squared his shoulders and lifted his head proudly.

They would be dealt with by the fury of Rohan!

Now that he had an idea of what lay before them, he would send his fastest riders to every town and village across the Westfold. He would gather every man capable of wielding so much as a bread knife, and every horse hardy enough to carry them, and smite at the enemy before this day was done! He would see that every widow in Rohan was avenged for the loss of her husband before the next dawn!

Isengard would know the wrath of the Rohirrim before sun next rose in the east!

Determination flooded him as he nodded his understanding of the elf's words.

"The gift of the Lady Galadriel is gratefully received, friend Glorfindel. It will strengthen our resolve to avenge our fallen and retake our lands, on that you may depend!"

The Green Witch offered a thin smile.

"You really are a very fine people. I am very sure that with a will as strong as yours, those ghastly blighters will be running for the hills before you so much as draw your swords. And may I offer you a tip: it has been my experience so far, that the smelly fellows have a deep aversion to a thoroughly decent wash. So, when you're rounding up all those nice young chaps to hack their heads off, you may want to consider raiding the local bathrooms for as much soap as you can find. The mere sight of it is enough to send them into a raving panic!"

"Erm, thank you, my Lady," stammered Erkenbrand, completely thrown by the unexpected nugget of wisdom. Fight orcs with soap? Was she completely serious?

Her bright blue eyes regarded him steadily enough to tell him that she was.

"Well, now," she said primly. "It's been very nice chatting with you, young man, but we really ought to be on our way. And so must you, if you plan to raise an army and ride to Helm's Shallow before the sun sets..."

"Helm's _Deep_, Aunt," chuckled her nephew.

"Yes, yes. That's what I meant. Anyway, Archibald and I wish you all the best. If we see any of your own chaps as we ride, we'll let them know where to find you - and if we see any of Saruman's chaps, we'll give them something to think about. Before we hex them to pieces, of course. Or _hack_ them to pieces, as the case may be," she finished, arching a thin brow at her grinning nephew.

Erkenbrand offered them a genuinely broad smile (to show off his 'beautiful' teeth).

"Then I bid you farewell, Green Witch. And you also, Lord Archibald," he added, knowing that the old woman would approve.

It earned him a beaming smile from her (and an ugly scowl from the elf).

Suppressing a chuckle, he bowed as much as he could while seated on Windlyft. "May the winds of favour carry you safely over the lands of my fathers, friends of Rohan. Know that you are always welcome to pass through them. Mayhap one day, you will pause in your passage and rest your weary feet in the home of a friend. Edoras will ever be ready to bid you welcome!"

"And we shall ever be glad to hear it," replied Glorfindel (not sounding entirely truthful - most likely still smarting after the 'Lord Archibald' comment ). The elf gave a graceful nod and the pair urged their steeds into motion.

"Cheerio, young man! Keep your chin up. And don't forget about the soap!" cried the Green Witch as she followed her nephew carefully across the battlefield. Soon, they had navigated their way safely around corpses and craters and were thundering across the plain towards the Isen. In another few minutes, they had reached the island (the woman paused briefly to wave at the astonished riders scattered around it) and crossed to the east bank, and then they were gone too far for his eyes to track any longer.

With a sigh of wonder and a disbelieving shake of his head, he nudged his mare to join the others in their grim task of burying the dead.

And then, by Eorl, they would ride to the ruin of their enemies!

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Author's Note_: Again, sorry for the delay. But I've not been idle. It's taken me four (tortuous) weeks to try and write something akin to a convincing battle-scene (let alone a convincing battle-scene with an old woman in it). I certainly hope it was worth the wait!

Don't worry though, Helm's Deep should not be as big a problem, because there is much more info on that than there was on the Second Battle of the Fords of Isen. I'll get started on it tomorrow!

I'll update with translations later on (it's half-past two in the morning and I haven't the energy just now).

Thanks for your patience, folks. I really do appreciate it.

Kara's Aunty :)


	21. Helm's Deep

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. and Lord of the Rings and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

**Credit: **www dot hp-encyclopedia dot com and www dot Tuckborough dot net, www dot /translation/Sindarin, www dot realelvish dot net, Old English Made Easy, www dot translation-guide dot com.

**Please review - it really _is_ my only reward.**

**Not Quite A Maia**

**Chapter 21**

* * *

_Third Age: 3rd-4th March 3019_

_Helm's Deep_

After Ceorl delivered his news, the one thousand-strong Rohirrim army rode relentlessly through the darkness for several hours more. Only a few torch-wielding riders dotted sporadically around the company offered enough light to aid their passage past the White Mountains. A valley began to carve its inexorable path through the cliff face as the company turned slowly eastwards.

"The Deeping-coomb begins!" cried Éomer.

Much to the young wizard's annoyance, the huge blond still looked exceptionally fresh despite the long day of hard riding.

Which, in Neville's opinion, was not fair. _His_ backside was killing him. The least Éomer could do was fake a little discomfort (for the sake of his guests).

One thing was certain: if he got out of this whole Middle Earth adventure with his skin intact (and his heart still beating), the ruddy nag was history!

Oh, yes.

Théoden King could shove his horsey gift up his ...

"Are you alright, dear?" queried Molly, flying overhead on her (comfortable) Cleansweep. She had just spotted him trying to lift himself up in his seat, so that he could clench his aching buttocks (and prevent the rapidly-blooming pressure sore from expanding further - at the rate it was going, he'd be able to shove the ruddy horse up himself).

Not a pleasant thought.

Her motherly concern banished the mental vision of Fæleu bolting up an orifice she had no natural business being anywhere near (at least, not without the saddle to act as a barrier) and Neville lowered himself as gently into his saddle as the million-mile-an-hour gallop would allow.

"Yeah. Just taking a look at the comb ... er ... coomb-thingy," he lied.

Molly eyed him shrewdly.

"Didn't you put a Cushioning charm on that saddle?" demanded the witch after he winced in pain.

"Yeah. But some helpful sod replaced the old one with a new one at the stables in Edoras, and I didn't have time to cast another charm before we all set off."

Nor had he had the inclination. It would have been too embarrassing to cast the spell in front of Háma and all the other (disgustingly manly) Rohirrim, because then they'd know he couldn't ride as far as five feet away without the aid of an invisible pillow. Éomer would've had a right good laugh at that. And what if the lovely Éowyn had seen him cast it, too?

_That _didn't bear thinking about.

"Then you should've done it before we set off this morning, Neville. Dear, oh dear! Anyway, never mind: we're almost at Helm's Deep. I can see it from here, actually. It's very impressive. Could do with a few flowerbeds to brighten up the lawn, though. There's plenty of space for them - and a Quidditch pitch, too!"

"I don't think the Rohirrim play Quidditch, Molly. They're Muggles, remember?"

"Oh. That's right. Do you now, I've never really thought of them as such? In fact, I've never thought of any of our nice new friends as Muggles - not the sort _we_ know, anyway. Does that seem strange?"

"No. I know what you mean. they're not ordinary Muggles, but they're not wizards, either. Sort of ... super-Squibs, really."

She laughed. "Ooh, I like that! _Super-Squibs_! Mrs Figg would laugh!"

Mrs _who_?

He didn't have time to enquire any further into Molly's mysterious acquaintance, because the company was beginning to veer into the ravine proper. High cliffs loomed ominously on each side of the riders. A few hundred yards further in, Neville could just see the edge of a long trench and rampart, over a mile in length, stretching across the Deeping-coomb.

"'Tis Helm's Dike. Beyond is the Deeping-wall and the Hornburg," explained Théoden's nephew after glancing over and seeing the teenager's wide-eyed reaction to the mighty Rohirric defence.

"Bit small, isn't it?" muttered Neville. Before Éomer could do more than cock an eyebrow in response, there was a horn blast from the scouts who'd ridden ahead to the Fords earlier that day. Out of the darkness, arrows whistled. One of the scouts returned to report that wolf-riders were abroad, and that both orcs and wild men were hurrying southward from the Fords of Isen in the direction of Helm's Deep.

"We have found many of our folk lying slain as they fled thither," the man exclaimed. Théoden, Aragorn and all within earshot listened grimly to the dark news. "We met Riders sent forth by Erkenbrand, also. They travel across the Westfold to gather as many able-bodied Men and horses as are fit to see battle."

"Is the Lord of the Deeping-coomb still by yonder Fords?" the King asked.

"Nay, lord. Both he and Grimbold left there an hour past dawn to call at all the villages of the Westemnet on similar errand. It is said that we shall have need of all swordsmen and archers they find, for there are reports that the Enemy numbers almost nine thousand-strong, if not more."

Neville threw Molly a look. Nine thousand? Hadn't she said ten? The soldiers at the Fords had obviously been busy.

Théoden was of similar opinion. "'Tis a goodly enough number, though our honoured guests did earlier mention more. Yet, I am grateful for the easing of the burden, nonetheless. It seems that the Marshals have at least managed to slay enough of Saruman's servants to lighten our work in the Deep."

"They were not alone in their task, my liege. One of the Riders I met was Grimbold's captain, Hafold, and he claims they had the aid of an Elven warrior and his aunt - a lady known as the Green Witch!"

The scout's words sent a ripple of excitement through the company as the news was passed further back through the ranks of men.

"The Green Witch?" exclaimed Neville and Molly in unison.

"An _Elvish_ Witch? Could he mean the Lady Galadriel?" demanded Aragorn (Gimli's hand rose to his head and he straightened his hair - as if the mere mention of her name could produce the stunning elleth).

"Which Elven warrior? The Lord Celeborn? Why would he and his lady leave the safety of Lothlórien?" asked Legolas in deep confusion.

"I know not their names, lords, my Lady," said the scout with an apologetic nod at the males and Molly. "I know only that Hafold said they gave aid to both Grimbold at the Fords, and Elfhelm farther up the Gap. With their intercession, more than one thousand of our enemies now lay burning in pyres down the length of the Isen."

Théoden spared the brown-haired rider (a novelty in Rohan) an assessing glance. "Where are these strangers now? Have they joined our forces to march to the Deep?"

"Nay, lord. Erkenbrand met with them on the western bank of the Isen ere dawn broke: it seems they have an urgent errand in Gondor and left for Minas Tirith with all haste long before mid-morning. But Hafold himself saw much of their magicks during battle - he says the Witch can command the very elements! That she threw burning rocks into the very heart of our Enemy's forces! And the Elf spoke with the volume of the Deeping-horn, declaring his wrath upon the Enemy in Rohan's name!"

"Well, that's wonderful news!" declared Molly happily. "Whoever they are, at least we now know that they're on our side."

"'Tis a mercy, indeed. We have enough foes to contend with as it is," the King muttered, before addressing his scout once more. "What of Erkenbrand - did Hafold say when he will arrive at Helm's Deep?"

The scout shook his head. "Nay, only that he will arrive ere the night is gone."

"Then let us hope he does not arrive too late to be of aid. I thank you for the news, Léofár. You may rejoin your company."

The scout gave a weary nod, tugged lightly on his mount's reins, then rode down the length of the company and out of sight.

"So it is that we have heard the tidings. The Enemy marches ever nearer to a battle which will determine our fate. Though their numbers are now less than we feared, they are yet great enough to give us pause."

"Then we'll just have to make sure we give _them_ a good reason to pause," declared Neville with feeling.

All nine thousand of them!

It was at times like these that he was glad to be a wizard - and a ruddy good herbology student as well. The thought of all the delightful surprises he had packed in his knapsack, just itching for the chance to be unleashed on the rotten gits whose friends had murdered Boromir, was enough to make him grin in very Gimli-esque glee.

"That is the spirit we need, lad!" cried the dwarf himself from his seat behind Éomer. "We shall make them all rue the day they first set foot upon our kind host's lands. Already my axe hungers for the taste of their blood!"

"It must hunger a while longer still, friend Gimli," said Éomer. "For the moment, we must make swiftly for the Deep if we are to arrive before the minions of Isengard. Yet, do not be disheartened: your axe may know the taste of the Enemy ere we reach it, if any lie already between us and the fastness itself."

"Not if Molly gets to them first," muttered Neville, noting the surprisingly feral glance the witch threw into the distance. Molly was so eager for the chance to cause some damage that she flew a hundred yards ahead in the hope of spotting Saruman's unfortunate friends before everyone else could.

The company of riders took off right behind her, with the young wizard accompanying Aragorn, Legolas and Éomer in the van. Their pace grew ever slower as the darkness deepened and the path climbed southward. Higher and higher they went into the dim folds at the mountains' feet. They did come upon a few roving bands of orcs and, though they were too far for the riders to reach before the majority fled, Molly surprised the life out of a few them (literally) when she swooped down on her Cleansweep and blasted them with a shower of acid rain.

Or rather, one hundred percent acid and _no_ rain.

Horrible screams rent through the night air as the unfortunate few fled clutching their scalps (and what was left of their eyes, where they had been unlucky enough to glance upwards on hearing her yell of _'That's for Boromir, you rotten lot!'_)

"Did you know that the lady is my sister?" shouted Gimli, fighting to be heard over the cheering Rohirrim.

Éomer spared a disbelieving glance over his shoulder at the smug dwarf.

"Sister?" said the blond with a dubious arch of his eyebrow.

"Indeed. If you doubt it, ask Aragorn," challenged the dwarf.

"If you say it is so, then I doubt it not, Master Dwarf. I am merely surprised. I had no idea Dwarven women were so much taller than their men-folk."

The blond's quick retort wiped the smile off the bushy dwarf's face. "She is not _so much taller_!" he barked in annoyance. "Why, with her boots off, she is a full inch shorter than I!"

"That's only because you usually still have _your_ boots on, dear!" quipped Molly, returning to a chorus of approval from the riders.

Neville snorted with laughter, earning himself a glare from the furry axe-man. "Why are you looking at me like that? I didn't say anything. It was your _sister._"

"I am beginning to believe I preferred being an only child," grumbled the dwarf.

The noise of war grew louder behind them and, as they climbed farther up into the Deeping-coomb, the sound of harsh singing carried through the night air. The company paused to look back. Countless flickering torches littered the black fields behind them.

"You know, if they're trying to kill us with song, it might very well work," said Neville with a wince.

"They will need more than a few foul verses to crush the will of Rohan," declared Éomer darkly.

"Yeah, well; if they keep that up when they arrive, I might just have to give them a song of my own."

"Aye, lad. Do that. Mahal's beard, but the sound of your voice raised in song may be enough to slay them in their droves. Yet, I would counsel you to remain as far away from us as opportunity permits when you do so, lest you slay our allies and myself into the bargain."

Sometimes, Gimli could be a right git, decided the teenager, glowering at him through the dim light.

"Don't worry. I'll save it until I'm chucking the Mandrakes at them," he promised (still scowling).

"Let us hope these Man-drakes will prove as effective as your own voice, young Neville, for the Enemy's host is great," stated Aragorn firmly.

"And they bring fire," said Théoden. "They are burning as they come; rick, cot and tree. This was a rich vale and had many homesteads. Alas for my folk!"

It was true. Neville - and everyone else - could see flames leaping from burning buildings even from where they stood.

Still, perhaps they could do something about that?

He turned in his (aching) seat and raised his head to look at his Guardian. "Molly. That Light of Varda - it works, right?"

She lowered her broom to hover level with him.

"Yes, dear."

"You're sure? Has it ever been tested?"

Her brown eyes danced in reply. "Actually, it has. When the hobbits and I broke free from the orcs back at Fangorn, one of the uruk-hai threw an axe at me. I was too busy Shielding the boys to be able to deflect it properly, but thankfully, when it hit, it was like being tickled with a feather."

Crikey! She'd been hit by an axe? Neville swallowed hard, grateful that he'd had the foresight to ask for protection for her.

"Don't worry, dear! I'm perfectly alright - which is more than I can say for the uruk. I threw the axe right back at him with the help of a handy Banishing charm. He was very unhappy about that - but not for too long, because then he was dead."

"Honestly Molly, you're beginning to seriously scare me. I'm glad it works though, because now I don't feel so bad about asking you this: could you Disillusion yourself and fly over to those houses? Don't engage the enemy yet - just put out the fires. If we can minimise the damage, then some of those poor sods can at least return back to their own homes when this is all over."

"Why, Neville! That's a wonderful idea!" declared Molly in approval. She spared another glance at the distant flames and, when she spoke again, there was a note of doubt in her voice. "I don't think an Aguamenti is going to take care of all those fires, though."

Legolas' musical voice lifted her concern. "You need not worry about that, Lady Molly. I feel the threat of rain in the air - it cannot be much longer until it falls. You need only take care of the worst of them until Nature takes care of the rest. Yet do not tarry long from our ranks: I fear we shall all have need of both your and Neville's arts ere midnight falls."

"In that case, I'd best be off. I'll be back in half an hour at the most."

Molly turned her Cleansweep and tapped her head with her wand. As she faded from all sight (eliciting murmurs of astonishment from everyone except her charge), Théoden advised her to follow a straight path down the valley on her return, where she would soon arrive at the Deeping-wall. She responded with a cheery 'Alright then, see you later!' before whizzing off across the dark fields.

"Would that day were here and we might all ride down upon them like a storm out of the mountains!" said Aragorn after the witch had departed.

"We need not fly much further," said Éomer in response. "Not far ahead now lies Helm's Dike, an ancient trench and rampart scored across the coomb two furlongs below Helm's Gate. There we can turn and give battle."

Furlong?

"Er, how long's that?" queried Neville, feeling slightly stupid.

"One quarter of a mile," supplied Théoden before addressing his nephew. "As for the Dike - we are too few to defend it. It is a mile long or more and the breach in it is wide."

"At the breach our rearguard _must_ stand, if pressed," insisted the younger man.

"Can we talk about this inside? Only, the longer we sit here and argue, the more likely it is we'll be fighting them out here where they can easily surround us."

"Wise words, Wizard of Awes. Indeed, let us make for the fortress at best speed. There we may discover how many Men already wait and may better plan our defences."

With that, the King turned his white horse, Snowmane, and all the riders followed him towards the Dike and through the breach. A lone sentinel challenged their passing, but was quickly pacified when he realised that his liege led an army of Rohirrim to aid in the fortress' defence. The company then halted on the sloping sward above the breach, which was when Neville had his first proper view of their final destination.

Bloody hell! It was _huge_!

A wall twenty feet high stretched from the southern cliffs to a spur of rock that jutted from the northern side. On top of the protruding rock stood a tall stone fortress surrounded by another stone wall, the tower of which thrust high into the night sky. The northern side of the mountain flanked its rear like an overprotective mother. At the foot of the spur was a long causeway that led up to the main gates.

Wow! They built something _that _big without the aid of magic? He was officially impressed.

As impressed as Neville was, he was not given more time to admire it. The company was soon distracted by the arrival of Gamling, the leader of those who watched the Dike.

"We have a thousand fit to fight on foot," said the old man after greeting his King. "But most of those have seen too many winters, as I have, or too few, as my son's son here."

"We may add another thousand Riders to that count, Gamling, and Erkenbrand gathers more from the Westfold."

"Yet I fear that he will not arrive ere the battle is underway, from what the scouts have told us," added Éomer. "Already the Enemy fills all the valley behind us!"

Aragorn nudged Hasufel forward to stand before the leader of the Dike, who was visibly concerned by Éomer's news. "Take heart, Gamling. The Enemy may be greater in number, but we are greater in skill. Here before you are one thousand of the best warriors from Edoras, and Erkenbrand _will_ arrive with more. Until then, we have aid which the Enemy cannot guess at."

"My Lord?" queried the old man with a puzzled frown.

"A Wizard, Gamling. We have the aid of a Wizard of great power," declared Théoden, indicating the teenager a few feet to his left.

It was at precisely that point when Fæleu decided she had had enough of her ungrateful teenage charge.

As the young wizard nudged her forward to greet Gamling, the horse reared.

"Aaagh!"

His feet came loose from the stirrups and Neville slipped backwards, tumbling heels-over-head as he somersaulted gracelessly off his horse's back. He landed (fortunately) on his rear with his legs spread-eagled in front of him and his elven cloak hanging over his head.

There was a rumble of laughter from the company and a long-suffering sigh. Aragorn's voice floated down to his ears through the fabric of his pretty cloak.

"This is Neville, son of Longbottom, the Wizard of ... _Awes_."

Great. Just great.

Mortified that his horrible horse had chosen exactly that moment to offload him (in front of over a thousand witnesses, no less), Neville seriously considered staying exactly where he was and fighting the hordes of Isengard from his seated position.

Might as well be comfortable, after all.

But his wish was not to be fulfilled. He heard the sound of someone dismounting (which was a feat in and of itself, given the gales of laughter still echoing through the valley) and a huge hand grabbed his arm and hauled him up. The miserable teenager fought his way free from his cloak, dragging it off his (scarlet) face and dropping it down his back. He looked up to see the towering form of Éomer gazing down at him with arched brows.

"It would appear that you have yet to accustom yourself to your steed's moods ..."

Oh, please! The nag's moods were 'surly', 'sulky' and 'downright hostile'. He had accustomed himself to all three very nicely, thank you very much.

"... you will never make a Rider if you cannot adjust yourself to her temperament ..."

What? He'd been 'adjusting' himself to her ruddy temperament for the past four days - and he had the bruises to prove it!

"... or control her with a firm hand."

Yeah, right. A firm hand. He'd love to take his 'firm hand' and use it to Avada Kedavra the ruddy mule into horsey heaven. Or - preferably - horsey hell.

"I'm fine, thanks for asking," muttered the teenager in embarrassment as the eyes of the company watched him hobble back to his hated horse. "No broken bones. Might not walk properly for a few months, right enough, and there probably won't be any little Longbottoms running around for at least a decade - Gran'll be devastated. Other than that, I'm just great."

Éomer laid a hand on Fæleu's neck and spoke softly in her ear (which annoyed Neville. Not that he wanted the enormous blond scratching _his_ neck or whispering in _his_ ear - Merlin forbid - but a little sympathy would've been nice). The words calmed the restless horse and she graciously allowed him to chuck the teenager back into his saddle.

Brilliant. Everyone was staring at him like he was an idiot. Especially Gamling. If the man had been impressed when Théoden told him he was a wizard, Fæleu had seen to it that he wasn't any more.

In an attempt to redeem himself, Neville offered a weak chuckle. "Don't worry. She does that all the time. It's her idea of a joke. A bit of harmless 'horsing around', you know?"

Gamling's frown deepened.

Ah. It seemed that not all Muggles were as familiar with that expression as Dean. He was going to have to have a few words with his former classmate when he got back ...

Fortunately, he didn't have to endure Gamling's disapproval much longer. Théoden spoke a few words more with the grizzled old soldier, then the company moved past him towards the causeway that crossed the Deeping-stream. To Neville's great relief, they had to dismount at that point to lead the horses in single file up the ramp before they passed through a set of tall gates into the fortress proper. Gratefully, he handed Fæleu's reins into an eager pair of hands and the chestnut horse was escorted farther up the ravine with all the other mounts.

"Come, Neville," said Aragorn, clapping him on the shoulder and indicating that he follow him away from the heaving mass of people still spilling through the gates. "Théoden and Éomer will need to position their Men before the Orc host arrives. Let us determine what strategy they have in mind for us both."

"Probably the wall itself," answered Neville speculatively. "The tower will be harder for the orcs to reach, but I'm guessing the wall will be the main point of attack because it leads into the valley behind. That's where the villagers fled to, isn't it?"

"Yes. The women, children and older villagers will have taken cover in the Glittering Caves at the end of the ravine after fleeing the oncoming host. You may be correct in your guess regarding the Deeping-wall, but let us first consult with those that know it best."

Neville nodded and followed the ranger through a narrow walkway that led to a staircase winding up onto the tower above. Théoden was there with Éomer, Legolas and (a very happy-looking) Gimli. The King was giving instructions for the dispersal of his forces.

"Éomer: the Men of my household will join me and those of the Westfold at the Hornburg. You will take those that remain to defend the Deeping-wall. Aragorn, you have no objections to joining him there with your trusty friends?"

"Nay, lord. Let it be as you command."

The King gave a grim smile. "No command do I give to thee, heir of Elendil. Instead, I give my gratitude once more for your timely arrival and noble aid."

"And we return that gratitude, King of the Mark, for allowing us the opportunity to partake in this mighty battle!" boomed Gimli. "Tonight, you shall hear the axe of Gimli Glóin's son sing as it sinks itself into the flesh of our foes time and again."

"It shall sing no louder than the Galadhrim bow of Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood!" declared the fair elf with a smirk at his dwarven companion.

Gimli rumbled with laughter. "Ah! A challenge from the pointy-eared princeling! I accept! If your bow fells more than my sharp blades, I will swallow my own walking-axe!"

"'Tis a good thing your mouth is large enough to accommodate your walking-axe, friend Gimli, for I will see you feast upon it ere the new dawn breaks."

Neville snorted with laughter (though Gimli did not). The dwarf shot him a heated glare, then (oddly enough) a beaming smile. Straightening his shoulders, Gimli marched over to the wizard and turned to face Legolas from beside the mystified teenager.

"'Tis fortunate for you that I have a sense of humour, elfling. I will even allow your little jest at my expense to pass without sundering you in two parts. In fact, I will no doubt save your immortal life on many occasions this night - starting right this very minute."

Grinning, he poked Neville in the side. "Give the princeling his pretty crown, lad."

"What crown?"

"The one that will save him from the death cries of your Man-drakes, of course!"

The elf paled. "He has not thrown them yet!"

"But I will, soon enough," promised Neville with a grin at his horrified friend. He shrugged off his knapsack, opened it, and delved into its depths. A few seconds later, he withdrew his hand in triumph.

"There you go: one pair of Mandrake-proof earmuffs," he said, handing them over to the reluctant elf. "Better put them on just now 'cos I've no idea how soon it's going to be before I set off with these plants."

Legolas flushed and snatched at the object of his disaffection. With a final glare at Gimli, he pivoted on his heel and stalked off towards the stairs that led to the top of the Deeping-wall (with a highly amused dwarf in tow).

No sooner had the two friends left, than Théoden addressed the (still grinning) teenager.

"As for you, Master Longbottom: you may choose that place which is best suited for you to launch your magicks against our Enemy."

"Thanks, sir. I was already thinking about going to the wall, if that's alright. It gives me a better view of the layout of the valley and I'll be able to chuck this lot ..."

He indicated the hidden contents of his knapsack with a jerk of his thumb.

"... out over the wall and straight into the heart of their troops a lot easier."

Théoden nodded in approval and was about to reply when a loud cry rose from the wall ahead.

"Can it be the Orcs have arrived already?" exclaimed Aragorn, grabbing Neville and beginning to drag him back down the walkway.

"Nay! It is the Lady Molly - she returns from the village yonder."

Éomer's finger pointed skyward and everyone saw that it was, indeed, the matronly witch. She whizzed overhead, waving at those startled Rohirrim who had yet to see the wonder of a flying witch and scanning the fortress with eager eyes.

"She's looking for me," said Neville, pulling his arm free of Aragorn's grasp and using it to shoot red sparks into the air. The witch saw the signal and zoomed over, descending into the walkway before dismounting her broom.

"I see you all got here safely, then? That's wonderful," she exclaimed, tucking her windblown locks behind her ear and brushing ash from her tweed coat.

"Lady Molly, how did you fare?" asked Théoden with some urgency. She executed a quick curtsey (which made Neville roll his eyes - she did that at _every_ opportunity) before speaking.

"I managed to put out some of the fires in the larger houses after the orcs passed, but I'm afraid the smaller buildings were already ruined by the time I got to them. One of the fields was burning, so I used the stream to tackle that; but it looks like you've lost half the crop on it already. Sorry, your Majesty."

The lordly man offered her a small smile. "The news may have been bleaker still, were it not for your efforts, and for that I thank you. Will you remain by young Neville for the battle's duration, my Lady?"

Her red hair bobbed as she nodded assent. "For the most part. But it's not polite to ignore guests, so I'll be offering our filthy visitors a few home comforts as well. Neville won't mind - will you, dear?"

"Mind? I'm counting on it! Got everything ready?"

"Yes. Mandrakes, Ferns, Devil's Snare - all at the top of my pack and ready to go. Have you taken yours out of their container yet?"

"I'll wait 'til we're up on the wall."

"How far from our position is the Orc host, Lady?" enquired Éomer.

"Another half hour or so, I should think. The soldiers at that thingy out there are already manning their positions and getting ready to defend it ... whatever it is."

"'Tis the Dike, Lady Molly."

She beamed at the younger man for supplying the name.

"Then let us all take to our positions," stated the King firmly, turning to the small postern-door that led into the Hornburg. One of the guards who accompanied him opened it to allow him passage. Théoden paused half-way through, throwing his nephew a glance over his shoulder.

"I do not plan for it thus, but if death takes me this night, sister-son, know that I have always held you as dear to me as my own beloved child. See to it that our people have good reason to love their next King as much as I love him now. See our people to victory!"

"Death may take us both this night, dearer than father," Éomer said softly. "But if it spares me, only to rob me of you, then your will shall be done. I swear it to you!"

Neville almost sniffed. Crikey! Were his eyes welling up?

He brushed at his face discreetly as the two men bid what could be their last goodbye, but it was not discreetly enough. A hand squeezed his arm and he looked down to see Molly had joined him.

"It won't come to that, dear. I didn't knock years off his face just to let those rotten beggars kill him a day later! Now, come on. You and I have got some work to do!"

With that, he followed her, Aragorn and a very determined-looking Éomer back down the narrow walkway and up the stairs to the top of the Deeping-wall.

The battle for Helm's Deep was about to begin.

**XXX**

"'Tis dark for archery," muttered Gimli. The dwarf was leaning as far over the breastwork of the wall as his stature would allow.

"Gimli! What the ruddy heck are you doing?" growled Neville, grabbing him by his corslet and yanking him back onto solid ground.

Gimli growled right back. "I was merely trying to get a look at the clefts below where the archers are situated, lad! There is no call for you to mother me so!"

"Another inch more and you would've been getting a closer look at them than you wanted - _as you hurtled to your death_!"

"Ah, lad! Were you concerned for my safety?" queried the now-beaming dwarf. "Do not fear. 'Twould take more than a mere twenty feet drop to send me to Mahal's Cave!"

"I should've let you fall on your head," grumbled the teenager in frustration. He ignored Gimli's chuckles, opting to look over the wall instead. The half hour Molly had guessed at earlier had already passed, but there was no sight or sound of the enemy any more. Far down in the valley, scattered fires still burned - a testament to their passage. But the harsh singing had stopped a while ago, the orcs choosing to advance with stealth for the time being. It was an effective tactic which caused more than one man along the length of the wall to shuffle nervously as they peered into the inky darkness ahead.

Suddenly, yells and screams broke out from the Dike. The sounds of fierce Rohirric battle-cries pierced the night.

It had begun.

Despite his earlier anticipation for battle, the realisation that it was now upon them made Neville a little nervous. This was it. This was where his duty to aid his friends _really_ began. The reason Varda had pulled him across Time and Space: to help the Fellowship and all the Free Peoples of Middle Earth defeat the evil that had threatened their freedom - their very lives - for so long. Would he be up to the task? Would he be powerful enough to do the job that Gandalf would surely have managed without breaking into a sweat? Or would he disappoint his new friends by failing them this night?

The teenager gave himself a mental shake to dispel his morbid thoughts: this was no time for doubts. There was a battle to be won. He may not be Gandalf, he was certainly no heroic Harry, but he _was_ Neville Longbottom.

And if that was good enough for Varda, it was good enough for him!

With his resolve in hand, he focussed on the Dike ahead. Flaming brands appeared over the brink and clustered thickly at the breach. Then they scattered and vanished. Men came galloping over the field and up the gate to the Hornburg. The rearguard of the Westfold had been driven back.

"The Enemy is at hand!" shouted one of the riders as he sprang from his horse and barrelled up the wall looking for Éomer. But the King's nephew was farther down with Aragorn. Legolas stepped out and asked for his report.

"We loosed every arrow that we had and filled the Dike with Orcs, but it will not halt them long. Already they are scaling the bank at many points, thick as marching ants. But we have taught them not to carry torches."

Great. Fire-wizards. Wasn't that handy?

"Are all your men back from the Dike yet?" Neville asked, having to shout to be heard over the roar of the approaching hordes.

The rider nodded. "All that yet live, yes."

"How far back does their army stretch?"

"Almost three furlongs in length down the Deeping-coomb."

Crikey, how far back was that? Hadn't these blokes heard of the metric system?

"'Tis just over a half-mile," supplied his elven friend helpfully.

Ah, right. Add another quarter of a mile from the wall to the Dike, and a little bit further for good luck, which would put him roughly at the spot Molly had left them to tend to the burning field.

"Molly?"

The witch (who had been whizzing up and down the length of the wall dispensing Cheering charms at will - a goodly number of the formerly anxious Rohirric forces were now almost manic with glee) flew back to find him digging through his knapsack.

"Yes, dear?"

"I'm going to Apparate behind the orcs and start chucking these Mandrakes out," he informed her, pulling out Harry's Invisibility Cloak and swinging it over his shoulders. Every man in sight gave a yelp of surprise (and Gimli almost fell over the side of the wall - again) as the teenager's apparently disembodied head floated several feet above the stone battlements.

"Sorry! It's fine - I'm alive!" he yelled for all to hear, opening the folds to let them see his torso. There was a collective sigh of relief and he covered himself just as a flash of lightning struck the eastern hills. Transfixed, he watched the space between the Dike and the wall with everyone else: it was crawling with black shapes, some squat and broad, some tall and grim, with high helmets and dark shields. Hundreds more were pouring over the Dike and through the breach, and they flowed up towards the wall from cliff to cliff like a dark tide of pure evil. The flash of lightning faded, plunging the night into darkness once more and then a clap of thunder boomed through the night. Seconds later, rain came lashing down on the Deep.

Arrows flew from the open space, sailing over the battlements. Some glanced harmlessly off the stones. Several struck their marks and men began to sink to the ground or topple over the walls.

The battle of Helm's Deep had begun.

"Molly, get your plants ready for the front lines ..." yelled the teenager as Legolas gave a musical cry of 'Elbereth Gilthoniel!' and started firing his deadly arrows into the heaving masses below.

"... but don't drop anything - especially the Mandrakes - too near the wall or our lot might get hurt too ..."

Another wall of arrows flew overhead and Molly produced a Shield charm to prevent any hitting those men positioned nearest to her. Gimli roared in delight (then cursed in rage when he realised he couldn't so much as throw a stone through it at the orcs below).

"... and you might want to think about letting the Light do its work again so the archers can hit their targets!"

"All right, dear! Shoot some sparks up so I know where you are - I don't want to lose sight of you!"

With a quick nod and a warning to Legolas to don his (ugly) brown earmuffs, he pulled the Cloak over his head and Disapparated.

**XXX**

A split-second later, there was a loud _crack_ as Neville Apparated a few feet from the slopes where the company had paused earlier that night. Rain thundered from the heavens, seeping through the Cloak and soaking him completely. The noise of battle boomed several hundred yards away, but the teenager couldn't see anyone in front of him.

Where the ruddy heck was he?

Wiping moisture from his face, he peered through the enchanted material of the Cloak and saw dwindling fires in the distance.

Oh. Fires. That's right.

Relieved that no one was present to witness his faux pas, he swung himself around to face the right direction.

There!

Up the slope, he could see black shapes crawling towards the Dike. A cold sweat ran down his back at the sight, mixing with the moisture of the lashing rain.

Bloody hell - there were _thousands_ of them.

Gritting his teeth, he fired red sparks high into the sky so Molly would know where he was. With that done, he pulled on his knapsack and freed the container of plants and his own set of earmuffs. The roar and screams of battle dissipated instantly when he placed them securely over his head. In its place was an eerie silence that was distinctly at odds with the hulking shapes a few dozen yards ahead. Orcs and (to Neville's surprise) men stumbled over each other in their eagerness to get to the Deeping-wall. They waved crude blades and gleaming axes as they surged towards the Dike.

Another flash of bright, white light lit up the sky, but it was not the temporary flash of lightning that struck earlier. This light remained, moving back and forth across the valley in the direction he had just came from.

Molly! Good old Molly had unbuttoned her coat and was striking fear into the hordes of Isengard with the Light of Varda!

Amongst other things ...

He grinned at the thought of her cursing and blasting Saruman's servants all the way to the fires of hell.

Waving his wand over the container, Neville drew a Mandrake from the interior by its leaves, Engorged it to its normal, mature size and grasped the bottom of the cloth roll which hid the main body of the plant.

Time to wake his little friends up.

Instead of gently unrolling the cloth, he yanked it down hard and threw the Mandrake high into the air, lifting the Stupefy while it was still in motion. Before he had a chance to see the ugly face screw itself up and let its displeasure be known, he gave a quick flick of his cherry wand and sent it soaring into the rear of the unsuspecting dark army ...

... then watched in enormous satisfaction as enemies started dropping like flies.

In their dozens.

Excellent! And that was just with _one_.

The bodies kept dropping.

Hah! Who needed an Elder wand? One Mandrake and a nice valley ...

Hmm. Valley.

He watched men and orcs alike staggering in mortal agony (before falling and rolling back down the slope) and it suddenly occurred to him that the Mandrake's cry might be magnified because of the high cliff walls. In fact, as he watched scores more bodies collapse in death and roll towards him (forcing him to dodge out of their way), he came to the conclusion that perhaps it would be far too dangerous to throw them any nearer the Deeping-wall.

Which was when he remembered that Molly had at least a dozen of them in her own bag.

Merlin's hairy ...!

A thrill of absolute horror swept through the teenager. In a flash, his wand shot out from the folds of the Cloak and he waved it wildly.

"_Expecto Patronum!_"

The silver Labrador burst from his wand-tip and shot a few dozen yards up the slope before it turned to soar back down towards him. Despite the Cloak, it located him easily and came to a halt mere inches away. He bent over it urgently, hoping to pull off the talking Patronus that Gran sometimes used to call him into tea with when he was submerged in the wilds of his greenhouse.

"Molly! Don't chuck the Mandrakes out - their screams will echo off the cliff walls and kill our own people! _Keep the Mandrakes in your bag!_ Send me a sign to let me know you understood!"

Without further ado, he sent the Patronus soaring up the slope and spent an anxious few minutes dodging the ever-increasing number of corpses rolling downhill until she answered.

Blimey! Wouldn't it be just his luck if Varda had summoned him all the way from Yorkshire to help the People of the West fight their own Dark Lord, and he ended up doing Sauron the biggest favour of his (immortal) life by finishing off most of the opposition with one ruddy plant?

"Come on, Molly! Answer!"

Visions of the future King of Gondor toppling to the ground with blood leaking out of his ears flashed through his head.

What was taking her so long? Had she already used them?

"No, no, _no_!"

It was enough to make him grab his bag and abandon the slope with the intention of returning to the wall. He was about to twist on the spot when another silvery blur came racing through the sky.

Molly's Patronus!

The lioness found him as easily as his Labrador had, and soon, his Guardian's warm voice was soothing his rattled nerves.

"_Don't panic, dear. I didn't bother with them after all because poor Legolas fainted a few minutes ago. He must have picked up a slight echo from yours despite the earmuffs - it's the elvish hearing you know - so I guessed that the cliffs were magnifying the sound. We had to move him to the caves at the back of the valley. Gimli thought it was hysterically funny, but poor Legolas will be ever so disappointed. They had a bet on to see who could kill the most orcs, which is a bit macabre, actually. I'll need to have a word with them both later. Gimli's delighted, though, because he's won the bet now, hasn't he? Anyway, I must get back to the wall. I'm going to start dropping the Venomous Tentacula - that should give our guests a pleasant surprise. See you later!"_

Relief flooded through the teenager and his legs almost gave out beneath him. Thank Merlin! Manwë would have slaughtered him on the spot if he returned to his nice, bright hall just to tell him he'd accidentally murdered half the nobles of Arda - and the wrong half at that.

Molly's Patronus faded from sight, leaving Neville to watch lifeless orcish bodies tumbling down the slope, and feeling a good deal better than he had five minutes earlier.

The same could not be said for the orcs. Confusion reigned supreme in the rear ranks of the host as those out of earshot of the Mandrake noticed that their numbers were dwindling for no apparent reason. There was no enemy in sight, no company of fierce Rohirric warriors rode up the slope to attack from behind - yet their comrades were dropping like flies. Bemused enemy agents scratched their heads before running back to investigate why their rear guard was rolling _down_ the slope instead of racing _up _it towards the Dike - only to join their deceased brethren a few minutes later. Slowly, the dent at the back of the host increased.

Thrilled that the Mandrake was proving so effective (and relieved that Molly wasn't wiping out half the Rohirrim further up the hill with her supply), Neville followed the advancing army of orcs up the incline, cutting a path to the right as he moved towards the northern cliffs. He removed Harry's cloak to move a bit more freely and stayed far enough behind the orcs to go unnoticed (not that _that _was difficult, they were still far too busy charging up the hill to imagine anyone was bold enough to slip in behind them).

Cocky gits.

But not for much longer. It was time to give the Mandrake-free side a shock of their very own.

Thrusting his hand in the knapsack that dangled open over his shoulder, Neville pulled out his dragon-hide gloves and slipped them over his hands before carefully liberating a spiky, dark red plant from the magical container. It was still in its shrunken state, but a wave of his wand soon corrected that. He contemplated the Bludger-sized Venomous Tentacula thoughtfully.

Hmm. Some of those uruk-hai were rather big...

With another wave of his wand, the teenager Engorged the plant until it swelled to the size of Aberforth Dumbledore's (poor, beleaguered) goat. It was so big, he had to charm it to hover while he lifted the Stunning spell.

Blimey, it was enormous! Good thing Professor Sprout wasn't here to see him do things to plants that no respectable herbologist should!

Not that the Tentacula would be complaining: it was about to have the feast of its life!

Neville grinned as he drew his wand back then flicked it violently forward. The goat-sized plant soared into the air, its long, trailing feelers arcing in a graceful curve as it flew over the stampeding army. Soon, it was swallowed by the darkness. Unable to see too far ahead, and fully unable to hear a ruddy thing thanks to his very excellent earmuffs, the young wizard trusted in the power of his (voracious) plant and repeated the process with another. It, too, soared high into the night air, landing too far away for his naked eye to see.

He was unwilling to use all of the carnivorous plants so soon, though: he only had eight, which he'd split with Molly. Despite the gravity of the odds he and his new friends faced, Middle Earth's war was not over until Frodo chucked the One Ring into the fires of Mount Doom, and Merlin knew how many other battles lay ahead of them until then.

Still, not to worry. One really good cutting of Devil's Snare would cause a lot more damage than the Tentacula. In fact, the damp, dark conditions of the nocturnal valley were ideal for it! Wasn't it lucky that he'd brought fifteen?

Lucky for _him, _at any rate_._

Feeling like a third year student in Honeydukes, he sprinted across the width of the valley lobbing three of the dark vines into the orcish forces. A powerful Blasting charm sent them soaring almost one hundred yards up the grassy incline before they dropped.

By this time, Neville had followed the dark army up several hundred yards of the incline - well clear of the worst of the Mandrake's cries. He was having to dodge less corpses and more unconscious forms. It would be a matter of hours before they roused to rejoin their comrades in battle. They'd be spilling through the Dike towards the Deeping-wall before dawn (if the Devil's Snare didn't get them first). Already he could see the outline of the earthen forts ahead. Most of the blade-wielding baddies he followed were still charging towards it, either too desperate to remove themselves from the horrible cries of the Mandrake behind them, or too eager to deal out death to his friends to care that their brethren were under silent attack from behind.

That was about to change.

Leaving the Devil's Snare to do its work, Neville paused by an outcrop of rock to catch his breath. Crikey, he was knackered! The battle had only begun an hour ago and he was already flagging. Still, at least the Mandrake's Hear-Me-Not hex would be kicking in shortly. But for now, it was time to stop throwing things _up_ the ruddy hill and start throwing them _down_ it (from the safety of the Deeping-wall). After he introduced Flaming Ferns to the bloodthirsty ranks of Saruman's servants, of course.

It took some careful planning and execution to free the dangerous ferns from their comfortable environment and Levitate them without accidentally pricking his arm with a spike. Timing the removal of the Stunner so that they shot their deadly darts over the mass of orcs was even trickier, but Neville wasn't the best Herbology student at Hogwarts for no reason. In less than twenty minutes he had ten of the plants floating a few feet ahead of him and ready to launch.

Neville had carried out the majority of his assault so far in silence. Not one of his enemies yet realised they were under attack from behind (although several dozen were becoming increasingly alarmed at the hostile vegetation spontaneously flourishing in the Deeping-coomb - master hadn't mentioned _anything_ about that). But he decided it was now well past time to make his presence known (just to see the looks on their ugly faces).

Deeming it safe enough to remove his earmuffs, he took them off and shoved them into the knapsack as he dashed ever farther up the hill. "Oi! You lot - over here!" he yelled.

No answer.

Great. His first ever fireworks display, and the fireworks were ignoring him. What a bunch of damp squibs!

Muttering in annoyance, he touched the wand to his throat, keeping an eye on the Ferns to make sure he wasn't stretching his concentration too much. Wouldn't do to make _himself_ a fireball because of his own carelessness.

"_Sonorus!_"

There! That should do the trick.

Opening his mouth, he tried again.

"OI! _OI! _YOU WITH UGLY FACE - WHICH IS EVERY LAST ONE OF YOU, ACTUALLY. WHAT THE RUDDY HECK ARE YOU DOING RUNNING ALL THE WAY UP THAT HILL, WHEN THERE'S FRESH MAN-FLESH A FEW FEET AWAY?"

A huge portion of the advancing army halted in its tracks as Neville's booming voice reverberated from one side of the valley to the next. Over and over again it careened off the cliff faces of the Thrihyrne, echoing up and down the ravine.

Oh, yes. That was _much_ better!

He gave the surprised army a cheery wave.

"WHAT - DOESN'T _ANYBODY_ FANCY A MIDNIGHT SNACK?"

The cheeky invitation was enough to send the nearest foes into a snarling, spitting frenzy. Arrows began to whiz down the hill within seconds. They were easily deflected by his Shield charm. A few minutes later, he returned fire (literally) with the first of the Flaming Ferns. It soared across the sky, drawing the attention of a few of his enemies. One or two pointed and laughed as they registered nothing more than a plant.

Hah! They wouldn't be laughing for long. It would be a completely different story in roughly sixty seconds.

The Fern vanished into the crowd. Neville cancelled the Sonorus and donned the Invisibility Cloak again, simply to make the ugly archers' job a bit more difficult. A few of them were already barrelling down the slope to his last known position and he didn't want to give them too easy a target (Gran would kill him if he popped his clogs). He sprinted across the valley with a line of the remaining ferns in tow (and a few slobbering orcs and men not far behind them). The plants were slowly dwindling as he lobbed them across the heads of his guffawing enemies.

To his annoyance, the line of floating plants allowed the orcs to get a rough idea of his position. More and more arrows flew both down the slope, and across from the dozen or so wild men that charged over the valley in search of their elusive assailant. More than once he had to stop to hex the growing threat at his back, or cast a Shield arm to ward off a projectile that gotten too close (which was several, given the sheer number of seriously stinking orcs to his left).

But his luck held long enough to allow him to lob the majority of his weapons into their midst. Already he could hear the telltale screams of surprised agony as enemies began spontaneously combusting from far up the left of the valley, where he had started his death-dash, and almost all the way to the right of it. Screams of horror resounded through the night as flames leapt high into the air and spread quickly throughout the tightly packed ranks. Orcs, uruk-hai and men scrambled wildly away from the Dike and down the very slope they had spent so long trying to climb up, in an effort to escape the inexplicable fires.

"It be Wizard's magic! It be Wizard's magic!" yelled a retreating man in accusation when he spotted the teenager's Shield charm. But before the furious foreigner could retaliate against the upstart youth, the unfortunate man exploded in a fireball of his very own.

Neville had to abandon his attempt to lob the final Fern into enemy ranks when a company of the wild man's shabby friends came storming down the field towards his position, screaming for vengeance.

Er, perhaps this was a good time to leave?

Indeed it was. There were now so many enraged, snarling, blade-wielding bad boys charging towards his Shield (and therefore him) that he was in serious danger of being cornered against the northern cliffs. If they managed to circle him, he would never be able to fend off all their weapons. The Cloak was useless now. His position was well and truly established.

With this realisation, Neville whipped it off to allow free movement and shoved it haphazardly in his knapsack with one hand, trying to maintain his defensive Shield with the other. He turned on his heel and charged across the remainder of the valley, trying to distance himself far enough from the enemy forces so that he could stop to Disapparate.

But now that he had revealed himself in all his glory, the humans on the hill were screaming and yelling like men possessed. More of the swarthy soldiers stormed down the incline to attack their formerly invisible tormentor, hurling arrows and axes in mid-stride. His Shield just wasn't big enough to deal with all of them.

Blimey! At this rate, he wouldn't even be able to Disapparate!

Taking a chance, he dropped it long enough to throw a Blasting curse at the nearest offenders. They flew backwards into those that followed behind, knocking everyone off their feet. With one quick motion, he dipped his hand in the knapsack, shoved it into the waiting dragon-hide glove, and Summoned his still-floating Flaming Fern. He caught it deftly and crammed it into its container (it would be a shame to waste it). Before the men and orcs could regroup, he searched for the mental picture of the walkway behind the Hornburg gates and Disapparated.

**XXX**

_Crack!_

Fortunately for Neville, he disappeared from the valley just in time to avoid being cleaved in two by an enormous axe.

Unfortunately for Neville, his aim was still off and he Apparated a few feet away from his intended destination - on the_ opposite_ side of the gates.

Smack, bang in front of a billion roaring, shield-wielding orcs and men charging up the causeway with two massive tree trunks.

"Aagh! Crap! Crap! _Crap!"_

What a ruddy time for his aim to be off!

His sudden appearance created havoc among the stampeding masses. They crashed to a screeching halt halfway up the causeway and gaped stupidly at the horrified wizard.

"Er ... hello?" offered Neville politely (manners maketh the man, after all. It was one of Gran's favourite sayings).

"Get 'im!" yelled a large uruk at the head of the astonished crowd.

Oh, no!

Over one hundred enemies came charging up the causeway, with the clear intent of smashing him against the gates with their makeshift battering rams. More than a little alarmed, Neville lashed out with his wand. A Hurling hex sent the trunks, and a good number of their bearers, flying back down the smooth incline. Those that remained tracked their progress high into the air and down over the orc-infested plain.

Not that Neville noticed. He was far too busy banging (uselessly) on the gates (having abandoned any further attempts to Apparate in case his unlucky aim landed him somewhere just as unpleasant; the equally orc-infested Dike, for instance).

"Oi! Let me in! There's a ruddy great load of right ugly gits out here with an appetite for man-flesh - and I'm about to become the first course! _Open up!_"

An arrow whizzed up the causeway and thudded into the door a mere inch from his right ear. Ah. It appeared that his ugly companions had regained their senses.

Once again, Neville made use of his Shield charm and banged ever more fervently on the Deeping-gates. What was taking them so long?

"Oi! _Open the ruddy door!"_

Another arrow, followed by another.

Oh, great. Longbottom kebab was back on the menu ...

Giving up on the gates (and therefore the Rohirrim - damn them!), he whirled back around and shot another Blasting curse down the causeway. But his appearance in front of the towering fortress had whipped the bloodthirsty crowd into an excited frenzy and, to his dismay, the population on the broad path had doubled, no _trebled_, while his back was turned. It seethed with over three hundred hate-filled, leering faces, all anxious to take a chunk out of him.

"Sod off! Sod off! Sod off!" he yelled, sending curse after hex after jinx down the stone incline and forcing the charging minions to retreat in fury as their comrades wobbled, fainted and pulled down their leather breeches with the sudden, urgent need to empty their bladders (right over the protesting crowds below).

Excellent! Molly's Your-I-Nation jinx was a winner.

To his right, the Deeping-wall was under attack from a hail of archers who shot burning arrows more than twenty feet into the air and over the battlements. Screams rent through the night as some of the projectiles hit their mark; men and boys flew from the wall to land on the jubilant mass below. Horrified, Neville stuck his still-gloved hand into his knapsack, pulled out the Flaming Fern that sat at the top of the container, lifted the Stunner and with a quick flick of his wand, threw it over the causeway and into the orcish crowd.

He was, however, completely unable to stand idly by and watch the effect it would have. A mighty crash resounded a few feet from his position and he swivelled his head to gaze through the pouring rain at the causeway beyond.

Water, it seemed, was not the only thing falling from the skies.

"Oi! Stop chucking those ruddy boulders at me!" he screamed at the unseen men on the Deeping-wall who were ... chucking ruddy boulders at him.

Or rather, at the advancing army of shield-ridden orcs and men, who had recovered their battering rams and were resuming their charge in his direction.

Great. Just great.

How in Merlin's name was he supposed to stop the stubborn gits? Every time he turned his head, they multiplied. The Rohirrim weren't letting him in for fear the enemy followed, he didn't trust himself to Apparate six feet to safety, and he was being attacked on all sides from orcs, wild men and horse-fanciers!

What he needed was a distraction.

Or at least a defence strong enough to keep the orcs and their horrible human mates away, and give him enough time to persuade Théoden's men to _let him the ruddy hell in!_

Decision made, he threw several more Blasting charms down the causeway (and, occasionally, upwards at the rain of rocks the Rohirrim were still chucking at him) then, on impulse Neville followed their path a few metres down the narrow incline - much to his enemies' surprise. They scattered in alarm when he sent his glowing Patronus in their direction, giving him a few more precious seconds to erect the temporary defences that might persuade his allies to open the door to him.

"_Latero parietis!_"

Out of nowhere, a brick wall - eight feet in height and ten in width - appeared in the middle of the causeway.

Brilliant!

A few more of them ought to give the rancid gits pause for thought ...

Neville backed slowly up the causeway towards the gates, creating one wall after another as he went. They wouldn't stop the howling masses, but they effectively put paid to any serious attempts at battering the doors (and therefore him) to a pulp.

He had little time to congratulate himself when another giant boulder came sailing down from the wall above the gates and smashed into one of his magnificent creations.

"_Will you lot stop chucking those bloody boulders!_" he shouted in frustration, waving a fist at the sky behind him, before hurriedly repairing the ruined wall. Slowly, he backed further and further up the causeway, creating barriers, hexing those orcs that tried to slip round (or over) them, and keeping a wary eye on the heavens above for the next sign of friendly fire.

Where the ruddy hell was his Guardian, anyway? Wasn't she supposed to be watching out for him?

But Molly was nowhere in sight, forcing him to see to his own defence while he retreated back up the causeway. It took ten long minutes of dodging arrows and building walls before he finally found himself back at the gates. Swinging himself around, Neville resumed his frantic banging at the doors.

"Oi! You can let me in now! They've no chance of getting anywhere near your gates with those trees anymore!"

He could hear yelling on the other side of the gate. An angry voice was berating whoever protected the entry to Helm's Deep, but he couldn't make out what they were saying and neither was there any move to allow him entry.

Could this night get any worse?

Blasting the gates open was out of the question, given that it would allow all nine thousand of the screaming, snarling enemy forces free entry to the Deep at their own leisure; but neither could he stay out on the causeway all night. He'd be a pile of rotting mince before morning came.

"Will you lot open the ruddy gate for ten seconds?" screamed the frustrated teenager. "In fact, five'll do me just fine!"

Still no movement at the other side.

The young wizard gave one final bang on the gates. "Two, then? That's my final offer_, you rotten sods!_"

More arrows came flying up the causeway, forcing him to abandon the gates and fire a Shield charm to protect his head and shoulders. Roars and screams followed in their wake and he knew that his unhappy companions were beginning to scale his defences in an attempt to capture (and probably chew on) him. It would take them at least fifteen minutes to reach the gates though, and a nasty surprise awaited the idiot that made it to the last two walls (he had decorated the tops with barbed wire - Dean was a huge fan of old war move-ees and was always telling him about this or that Great Escape from enemy prisoner-of-war camps. It had seemed like no more than another odd Muggle custom to him - until now).

Great. This was it. His life was over. He was stuck between a rock (one of the Rohirrim's heavy projectiles was falling towards him at that moment and he couldn't lift the Shield charm long enough to blast it or he'd be skewered by an arrow) and a hard place (the wall, the ruddy gates - take your pick). A billion orcs were heading his way (over walls, up the edges of the causeway), his Rohirrim allies weren't budging to let him in, Molly was nowhere in sight _and_ he hadn't had a decent snog in, oh, roughly forever.

Life was not good.

Just as he squeezed his eyes shut to succumb to the inevitable ...

_BANG!_

The rock above him shattered into dust and he heard the whoosh of a familiar broom.

"_Molly!_" yelled Neville in a happy delirium. "I knew you'd come. I bloody well knew it!"

"_Language_, dear!" shouted the witch as she shot jets of acid from her wand over the unlucky men and orcs that had managed to scale ten of his twenty walls. Their screams of agony echoed through the night and filled his heart with joy.

"You can let him in now!" barked the witch to some unseen person above the gates. The message must have been relayed down the stairwell one man at a time, because it took a full two minutes before the banging and scraping of wood indicated that the heavy doors were about to swing inwards. They didn't open far, just enough to allow him to slip into the walkway, but he had never been as happy in all his life to be in such an enclosed space as the tiny, narrow passage. The door boomed shut behind him and twenty huge, hairy blonds repositioned the timber and stones that were being used to barricade them.

"Ah, lad!" cried a familiar deep voice. "We were about to take a sortie out the side door and drive the beasts and their tree trunks off the causeway, but you saved us the trouble. What magnificent magic! With so many walls, the Enemy will never reach the gates with those battering rams!"

The dwarf was beaming at him proudly, but Neville was livid.

"There's a side door?" he demanded in disbelief. There's a ruddy _side door_?"

Bloody typical. He had spent the better part of half an hour trying to get through the Deeping-gates, when he could have slipped through the side door in a tenth of the time and with none of the bother!

"Why didn't you tell me about that, then? In fact, why did you open the gate instead of calling me from there?"

"The element of surprise was lost to us. There are now so many Orcs attempting to slip past the edges of your stone walls, that they could not but fail to notice a postern door opening mere feet from the main gates. We would not wish to give them an easier target than that."

This from Aragorn, who was striding back down the walkway from (presumably) the direction of said postern door, with the hulking form of Éomer in tow.

The teenager's frustration melted away. He was far too happy to see his friends again to remain irked. "Molly's right outside taking care of the more stubborn ones. And the brick walls should put paid to their attempts to smash the door down."

"You have done well, young Wizard. But tell me: did your efforts with the Enemy's rearguard prove as effective?" enquired the ranger

Neville nodded. "The Devil's Snare should be expanding nicely. I threw three good-sized cuttings in, but the dark and damp conditions will make them spread like a virus. They're strangling orcs as we speak. The Venomous Tentacula will be stuffing their faces, the Flaming Ferns are causing devastation, and the Mandrake has finished off a few hundred orcs and men already. Which reminds me - how's Legolas?"

Gimli snorted. "He swooned and fainted like a maiden not three minutes after you left us, lad. At first I thought him struck by an Enemy weapon, but Lady Molly's glowing shield was upon us at that time. I was greatly relieved - though if you tell him that, I will deny it. It was your Guardian who guessed that you had let loose your Man-drake plant not minutes before, and this Dwarf's knowledge of rock that guessed the cliff walls of Thrihyrne were delivering its echoes to our poorly princeling. It seems that your pretty crown was not quite enough to tame the gift of his pointy Elvish ears!"

The dwarf was looking far too pleased with himself for it to be healthy.

"Do you know, lad, that he slew four of the Enemy before he dropped? Not bad for a few minutes work. Yet my tally now sits at _forty_."

That surprised Neville. How had the dwarf managed that without the aid of a bow and arrow? All he had were his axes, and the enemy hadn't overrun the battlements yet for him to get a swing at them.

"'Twas with the aid of your Guardian's magic. She has enchanted his axes to return to him whenever he throws one over the Deeping-wall," supplied Aragorn.

Gimli was beaming like a proud father as he fingered one of his beloved weapons. "Mahal was smiling upon me the day my sister was born!" stated the dwarf emphatically.

"We are all glad of your 'sister's' birth," said Éomer brusquely (still not sounding entirely convinced of Gimli's claim to kinship with the Weasley mother), "yet let us now return to the wall ere our Orcish friends begin to lament the loss of your trusty axes. This night is not yet over and we shall have need of them to fell even more of our Enemy, for it appears that the Men of Dunland have joined forces with Saruman's unnatural spawn."

"Dunland? Is that were those shaggy blokes in black I saw on the causeway come from?"

The Rohirrim's face screwed up in disgust. "Yes, it is so. For many hundreds of years Dunlendings have fought to take our fertile lands. They would claim them as their own, and have named us usurpers and thieves ever since the lords of Gondor gave the Mark to Eorl the Young and made alliance with him. Saruman has inflamed their grievance against us with black words of malcontent - they will not give way now for dusk or dawn until the King is taken, or they themselves are slain."

"Then let us set about slaying them as fast as we may!" grumbled Gimli, pushing past Neville to storm down the passage and take the steps to the wall once more.

Suddenly, horns sounded behind the door and a great cry rose.

"Ladders! They have brought ladders to scale the wall!" yelled a voice.

It was enough to make the three men scramble after the dwarf. To their horror, when they reached the battlements Neville and his friends saw that hundreds of long ladders were being lifted up to rest against it. Many had already been cast down in ruin, but even as they fell, many more replaced them. Orcs sprang up the ladders like Doxies up a curtain. At the foot of the wall, their fallen piled up like a macabre dark hill, but still the orcs kept coming, desperate to breach the inner sanctum of the Rohirric defence.

And the men of Rohan were growing weary. Most of their arrows were spent; their swords were yet notched and their shields were torn by the persistent barrage of missiles from the plain below. Leaving Aragorn and Éomer to rally their forces (helped by Gimli's yells of delight as he struck again and again at every orcish head to pop over the wall - the dwarf was clearly in his element), the teenager rushed down the battlement, smacking the nearly depleted quivers of the archers with his wand as he went. Multiple Ever-Full spells flew left, right and centre and men sighed in relief to have weapons at hand once more.

"Share them out! Pass them out to those with none left," he yelled in command. "The spell doesn't work on empty quivers!"

Many heads nodded and soon, arrows were being passed all the way down the two-men deep rows of archers.

Heavy clouds which had gathered over the valley two hours since were beginning to part, heralding an end to the heavy downpour of rain. A slowly-sinking moon shone brightly over the valley, illuminating the hordes of enemies crawling en masse like a great, black wave towards the wall. As he dashed down the battlements, Neville caught a glimpse of Molly soaring over the field and dropping plants over the middling ranks. Barely one minute later, a huge fireball exploded in the crowds below. Dead orcs and men flew up and out in a one-hundred yard radius; those that survived ran screeching and shrieking in agony, but she pointed her wand and flew in a circle around the flames, covering the fleeing foes in jets of thick dark liquid. The fuel attracted the hungry fire. Flames leapt up to engulf the oil-soaked enemies and soon the night air was filled with the stench of burning flesh.

"Molly! Molly - get the ladders!" he shouted, knowing that she would have a better aim at them from her side of the wall than his. "Get the ..."

Oh, never mind. There was no way she'd hear him over the racket below. Sighing, he abandoned his efforts to re-arm the Rohirrim and shoved his way to the front of the wall where the nearest ladder was. Two ugly uruk-hai heads were just popping over the top of it, crowing in delight at the appearance of the fresh-faced youth.

"'Ello there, little 'orse-lord," growled one of the (stinking) creatures. "Yer looks righ' tasty! Young an' fresh, jes' tha way ol' Shublug likes 'em! Jes' give us a second ter I gets me leg over an' I'll make a righ' nice meal o' yer!"

"Not likely," muttered Neville, before shoving his wand in the uruk's eye (a move that had worked very well for him in the past - MacNair would testify to that). The creature yelped in pain and automatically recoiled, tumbling back off the ladder and onto his filthy friends below. The remaining uruk snarled in rage, taking a swipe at the teenager, but Neville Blasted him off the ladder before he could do any damage. From the grunts and yells below, he knew that it would only be a matter of seconds before his two enemies were replaced by a dozen others.

Blimey! How was he going to get rid of all these ladders? True, it would be easy enough to Transfigure them into rubber, or something else that would collapse under the orcs' weight, but he didn't have time to run down the battlements, whacking them all with his wand - not at the rate they were being replaced by the orcs. What he needed was one spell that could take care of the lot of them ...

Merlin's wand! Had he been asleep during the Battle of Hogwarts, or what?

Shaking his head in disgust, he stepped away from the battlement, raised his wand in the air and shouted: "_Scalatotum locomotor!"_

All along the wall, ladders broke from their moorings and straightened to attention, taking every single ally and enemy in the Deeping-coomb by surprise (most especially those who had been climbing up them). A huge, collective roar bellowed up and down the ravine. Most of those orcs and men that were unlucky enough to be attached to the ladders dropped to their doom shortly after the young wizard cast his spell. The Rohirrim on the wall cheered and began to promptly pick off the remaining targets that still clung to them desperately.

Ecstatic that Professor McGonagall's spell was proving so effective, Neville quickly debated what to do next. From what Luna had told him, their Transfigurations professor had ordered all the suits of armour to defend Hogwarts. But armour had legs to run with. Ladders did not.

Still, he could always order them to _smack_ the enemy into submission ...

Taking a deep breath, he let his gaze settle on the nearest one and spoke.

"I order you to ..."

What was that ruddy word these Middle Earthlings were so fond of? Ah, yes!

"I order you to smite any living being on your side of the wall!" he yelled.

As if it had communicated with its (wooden) brethren telepathically, the ladder ahead - and all those along the wall and beyond - began to throw themselves down on the terrified crowd below.

_WHACK! THWACK! CRASH! BANG!_

Hundreds of thirty foot orcish ladders all over the Deeping-coomb were hurling themselves away from the wall and smashing into the enemy camp. Many splintered on the ground with the force of their momentum as orcs and men scattered down the incline in an attempt to escape their path. The few ladders that survived the first thrashing rose steadily off the ground and (much to the enemy's dismay) continued to squelch orcs and Dunlendings in their dozens until they, too, splintered into little more than firewood.

Cor - that was _brilliant!_ McGonagall was a ruddy genius! When he took the Sword of Gryffindor back to Hogwarts, then - post-menopausal or not - Neville was going to snog the face off her in thanks.

Mind you, she might kill him afterwards.

Okay then, he would hug her! Or at least shake her by the hand.

So thrilled was Neville by the result of the Deputy Headmistress' handy spell, so completely delighted to see the hundreds of fleeing enemies racing back towards the Dike, that he didn't see it coming ...

_Whoosh ... thwack!_

"Neville! _Neville!_" screamed a woman's voice as he staggered from the blow. He tripped and fell backwards, crashing against the rear battlements and sliding to the floor. Red-hot pain shot from his left side and he gazed at it numbly.

A black-shafted arrow was lodged through his left arm. It had entered at an angle from the crook of his arm, where the fletchling protruded, to just below the shoulder, where the tip was sticking out on the other side. Most of the shaft was buried along the length of his limb.

Too stunned to take notice of his friends rushing to his aid, Neville stared at it in morbid fascination.

"Ouch," he whimpered, before slumping into the black depths of unconsciousness.

**XXX**

Neville was floating in darkness.

No ... wait. It was _redness_. He was floating in redness. Merlin's beard, but it burned! Was he in hell? It must be, because he felt like he was being roasted alive from the inside out.

Funny that. Neville never thought he'd been bad enough to merit being sent to hell. True, he was no angel. He'd done a few suspect things in his short life; like the time he spat in Gwendolyn Farragut's tea (after vomiting on her face) when he overheard her calling Gran an 'old hag' during his (much-hated) weekly visits to the Knitting Bee (though he _had_ only been six at the time). Or the Christmas before he went to Hogwarts, when he spent almost a Galleon - which he had had saved to buy Gran a present - on a packet of Screaming Sunflower seedlings instead, leaving only one Sickle and three Knuts in change with which to get her gift (he'd spent it on a pair of frilly safety knickers from the Second Hand Shop in Diagon Alley. She had accepted them with grace, but he would bet his Mimbulus Mimbletonia they had never been worn - by _her_, at least).

Was that enough to merit eternal damnation, though?

As the burning sensation licked through Neville's body, he knew it must be.

Wait - licked _through_ his body? Shouldn't it be licking _over_ it instead?

"... _ille ... ville?_"

There! A voice! Someone was speaking to him.

He tried to rouse himself from the painful red haze, but whenever he moved, it grew more intense.

"_Neville?_"

"Whaa ...?"

"He rouses, Lady Molly! Quickly, give him the bees-oar."

Molly? Molly Weasley? What was she doing here? Was he still in the Great Hall? Odd - he didn't remember being hit by a Death Eater …

"Mrs ..."

"Yes, dear! It's Mrs Weasley - but you haven't called me that for a while now. Legolas, help him sit up."

Neville felt himself being carefully pulled into a sitting position. He tried to open his eyes, but was assailed by a wave of nausea. His head was pounding.

"Open you mouth, dear."

What? What for? He couldn't even open his eyes, let alone his mouth.

"You must do as your Guardian instructs, young one. The Orc arrow was poisoned, as all their weapons are."

Crikey! He'd been poisoned? By a ruddy arrow? Since when did Death Eaters use arrows - and who the ruddy hell was Legless? What a daft name!

"Oh, it's no good. He's still only half-conscious. You'll have to open his mouth for him, dear."

A hand pulled gently at his jaw, forcing it down. A second later, someone shoved something into his mouth and the hand pushed his jaw back up.

"Swallow, dear. It's alright - it's a bezoar. It'll help. But you need to swallow it fast, or you'll bleed to death."

Bleed to death? Blimey, that wasn't good. No wonder he felt terrible!

With a Herculean effort, Neville managed to gulp the little object down, then slipped once more into darkness.

The next time Neville awoke, it was to the noise of distant yells. Eyelids fluttered and his blurry vision slowly sharpened, and he found himself lying on a bedroll upon a sandy floor. High above was a domed ceiling which sparkled prettily in the torchlight. Water rushed somewhere in the distance, though he couldn't see it.

Where was he?

Yawning violently, Neville shook his head to clear the cobwebs of sleep, twisting it first left, then right to get a good look at his current environment. To his complete surprise, he found himself in the company of several _hundred_ blondes.

All of whom were watching him …

Crikey! Was he at a Malfoy family gathering? Had that twat Draco captured him and taken him to Malfoy Manor's dungeons?

Which would be just his luck.

A painful throb drew his attention to his left arm. The sleeve of his brown shirt had been ripped off at the shoulder. His arm was splinted tightly across his chest and secured with a makeshift sling.

Aagh! The gits had already been at him! Tortured him unconscious, treated his wound, then let him gather his strength for the next round of abuse.

How thoughtful of them.

Well, they weren't getting near him a second time!

Decision made, Neville rolled over and pushed himself up with his good right arm.

"Ouch! _Bloody hell!_"

That hurt! The teenager gingerly drew himself into a seated position and reached out to fumble for his wand. Only then did he realise that Clan Malfoy had probably confiscated it.

"Where's my wand?" he growled angrily at the curious group of women.

And old aged pensioners.

And _children_?

Some of the youngsters jumped in fright at his harsh tone.

Hmm. Something wasn't right here. Even a Malfoy wouldn't send such children down to witness, never mind participate in, the torture of another human being.

And unless they had cousins that he didn't know about (which, admittedly, was possible), there was no way that _all_ these strangers were related to such a prominent family of the Wizarding World.

Curbing his desire to panic at the loss of his cherry and unicorn hair wand, he spoke again, but with less hostility.

"Er, hello. Sorry about that - didn't mean to frighten you." Neville directed his apology to a little girl a few feet away. She jumped, running to hide behind the skirts of a woman who was obviously her mother. Liquid brown eyes peeped out at him from behind the haven of green fabric.

Great. He'd frightened her again. What a git he was.

Neville let his gaze sweep over the (rather alarmed looking, actually) mass of people who shared what appeared to be a cave with him. He frowned in puzzlement at their odd flowing dresses and long tunics, wondering why so many of them were gathered in this rather peculiar of places. They weren't saying much (at least, not to him; they were whispering amongst themselves and throwing him furtive glances). What was going on here? Why was he lying on a bedroll in sparkly cave with a crowd of people who looked like they came straight out of the Middle Ages?

Middle Ages?

Suddenly, it all came flooding back.

Middle _Earth_! He was in Middle Earth!

Or, more specifically, Rohan. His companions must be the villagers that fled Saruman's army as it burned its way down the Westfold.

Which explained the blank looks when he'd asked for his 'wand'.

"Do you know where my staff is?" amended the teenager, hoping they understood.

An old man pointed behind him. Neville turned his head and caught sight of his knapsack resting on an outcrop of rock. Beside it rested his wand and Sword of Gryffindor.

"The White Witch bade us watch your belongings carefully and instructed that none approach them," said the old man.

Phew! Thank goodness for that. As much as the thought of anyone else touching his wand alarmed him, it didn't frighten him as much as the mental image of one of the children slicing their fingers (or worse) on the Sword of Gryffindor.

Pushing the unpleasant thought aside, he rose shakily to his feet.

"You are not to move from your bedroll, lord" said the little girl's mother. "The Lady Witch only replaced your lost blood with her magic potions three hours since. You are to rest on her instruction."

"Yeah, well, she's not here is she? She's ... actually, where _is_ she?"

The woman stepped forward, offering her arms in support him when he wobbled on his feet. "As soon as your continued well-being was established, she left with my Lords Éomer and Legolas to wreak her wrath on those that wounded you. And she will return to wreak that same wrath upon me, if you do not lay down! I gave her my word that I would tend to you."

No way was he lying down for a quick nap when Molly and the others were outside kicking the collective posteriors of a dark wizard's army.

Shaking his head (which made it spin again, so he stopped), he addressed the pretty Rohan wife in as firm a voice as he could manage.

"She'll do no such thing, because you've kept your word. I'll tell her that."

He stumbled towards his knapsack and lifted the flap.

Now, where was that flask Cirdan gave him?

"You are not able enough to move, lord! Please, I beseech you. Take rest as the other wounded do."

"Where are the other wounded, then?" he asked, in an attempt to distract her while he shoved his entire right arm into his bag and grappled around for the Miruvor.

"They lie in another chamber. Their cries frighten the children - though they cannot help it and we do not blame them. Our village healers tend them there."

"Really? Why was I brought here then?"

"Because there is no space left there, lord."

Neville was still busy groping between his sealed container of plants, provisions of lembas, pyjamas and dirty underwear while she spoke. Her accent, like all of the Rohirrim's, had a pleasant, throaty sound to it.

"I really wish you'd stop calling me 'lord'," he grumbled, discarding the toothbrush he'd found and digging a little deeper in his bag. "The name's 'Neville'. Plain, old 'Neville'. Nothing lordly about that. And I'm sorry to hear that enough of your men have been wounded to fill an entire chamber. However ..."

Ah, success! He withdrew the flask, wrenched the stopper out with his teeth (which hurt) and took a few swallows before continuing.

"... now that I've swallowed this magic Elven potion, I'm as good as new for a little while longer."

Which was the truth. The combination of the Miruvor and the (no doubt) Blood Replenishing Potion Molly had given him earlier made him feel like a whole new man. The pain in his left arm ebbed to a dull ache, his head cleared, and he felt new, if temporary, energy flowing through his veins once more.

"Please, Lord Neville. I beg that you take your rest! You require more time to replenish your strength - and you cannot fight with one arm!"

Oh for Merlin's sake! It was nice that she was concerned, but he really didn't have time for this.

"Look ... er, what's your name?"

Surprise flickered across the lady's face at the enquiry, but she supplied the information all the same.

"Halwyn, wife of Deobold, Lord Neville."

"Well, Halwyn; you do know that I'm a wizard, don't you?"

She nodded apprehensively and several onlookers took a distinct step back, afraid he was about to curse them en masse.

"Then you know that I only need one arm to use my wa ... er, wield my staff, right?"

Another nod.

"Brilliant. Now, I'm going to take my staff in my very healthy right arm and go outside. Then - and you'll like this bit - I'm going to blast all those ugly gits to pieces that wounded your countrymen and frightened your children. You don't need to worry about me collapsing, or fainting, or whatever, because - as I've already told you - I've swallowed enough magic potions to keep the average Muggle awake for a week. I'm really grateful for your concern, but there's no need for it. And now, if you don't mind, I've got a few thousand orcs and Dunlendings to take care of."

With that, Neville shrank the Sword of Gryffindor and shoved it into his knapsack. He threw the bag over his good shoulder, picked up his wand, and marched confidently past the gaping woman, determined to rejoin the battle. All he needed now was an exit…

Ah! That must be it. A sandy slope led to a recess at the left of the cave and, assuming it was his way out, he gave his companions a big thumbs up and headed straight for it.

And straight into a smooth cave wall.

Typical. So much for his grand exit.

He stopped, flushed, spun on his heel and offered the crowd a sheepish grin.

"Er, where's the real way out?"

It was a very unhappy Halwyn who led the stubborn wizard to the mouth of the cave, depositing him at the entrance with a disapproving frown before retreating back inside to join her landsfolk.

Making his way from the Glittering caves towards the distant wall, Neville was able to hear the sounds of fighting ever more clearly. Screams and yells split the night, enticing him to greater speed as he hastened to rejoin the battle. His knapsack thumped awkwardly over his right shoulder, forcing him to cast a Sticking charm to prevent it from slipping. As he neared the wall, he was alarmed to see orcish corpses lying in heaps by the southern cliffs.

The enemy had penetrated the wall - but how? There was no breach in it, and the Deeping-gates were surely still intact given the amount of brick between him and the enemy forces.

It was a puzzle.

Several soldiers carrying litters of wounded men rushed past him, eager to deliver their comrades to the overworked healers in the Glittering Caves. Making a snap decision, he sprinted away from the wall towards two of the burly Riders.

"Hey! Oi! How did those orcs get in here?"

The men paused only long enough to answer.

"'Tis said that they came through the culvert."

What the ruddy heck was a culvert?

Grinding his teeth, he voiced the thought aloud.

"Beg pardon, lord. 'Tis the drain through which the Deeping-stream flows from the Glittering Caves to the Westfold. The same drain they almost used to sunder the wall. But the White Witch threw their flaming missile back amongst them, killing a goodly number of their own forces with it. Even now, Men and Witch barricade it against the Orcs with rock and magic."

Neville grinned - something he never thought he'd be doing mere hours after taking an arrow to the arm and almost bleeding to death.

What a woman! Really, Molly Weasley was rapidly becoming his hero!

Er, heroine.

He waved at the men as they rushed away with their unconscious charge and sped back towards the wall. Three staircases led from the back of the wall up to the battlements. Neville split the odds, opting for the middle one, and within seconds he found himself amidst a throng of battle-wearied soldiers who were still valiantly shooting arrows into the snarling enemy ranks. Pushing his way to the forward battlement (and erecting a Shield charm, just in case - wouldn't do to lose the use of his wand arm, too), Neville let his gaze fall on the plain below.

Merlin's beard! What a _mess_!

Indeed it was.

Fires raged all over the plain between the Deeping-wall and the Dike. The nauseating stench of burnt flesh hung heavy in the air, making his stomach roil. A massive crater pocked the ground near the southern cliffs and bodies lay in droves around it. Huge, thrashing piles of Devil's Snare caught orcs and men alike in its wake and strangled the life out of them.

Saruman's army of nine thousand had suffered serious losses.

Excellent!

But Neville's joy was short-lived. The orcish army might be taking a beating, but it didn't look like they were in any danger of surrendering. Even as he watched, huge uruk-hai threw grappling hooks into the air in another attempt to scale the Deeping-wall. The brick barriers he had erected on the causeway had been completely destroyed, and he could only surmise that they had plenty left of whatever they had tried to blow the Keep up with earlier.

And even now, a lone uruk was charging towards the Deeping-gate with a torch in hand ...

Oh, no! And he was too far away to reach it with a spell!

"Take out that uruk!" he yelled at the archers as he thundered up the wall towards the Hornburg. "He's set a charge at the gates - he'll blow them up! Kill him! _Kill him!_"

A dozen men swung round to face the new threat, all eager to eliminate the danger it presented. Arrows whizzed across the plain, even as more grappling hooks swung over the battlements - one of which smashed into the chest of a young man two feet in front of the horrified teenager. It pierced the youth's chest and his body convulsed spasmodically before falling still. Orcs and Dunlendings began to scale the entire length of the wall, forcing the archers and the wizard to abandon the causeway target to protect their own lives as enemies flooded over the top.

The uruk was now only ten feet from the gates ...

"GET AWAY FROM THERE, YOU DISGUSTING ANIMAL!" roared a familiar voice.

Molly!

Neville hexed a Dunlending who had just appeared two feet away from him, blocking his view of the Deeping-gate, and the swarthy man flew back over the wall he had spent hours trying to climb. With his view of the causeway now clear, he easily spotted his Guardian as she flew over the stone incline towards the gates and shot deadly curses at the torch-bearing uruk.

But the uruk was surprisingly quick on his feet.

_Too_ quick.

Saruman's finest leapt over the ruined brick walls, dodging Molly's coloured jets of light all the way, and threw himself at the Hornburg gates.

For a moment, nothing happened. Neville exhaled heavily in relief, convinced her spell had extinguished the uruk's torch at the last second. But, a mere second late, he flinched in shock as an earth-shattering _boom!_ split the air. To his - and everyone else's - dismay, the archway of the gate crumbled and crashed in smoke and dust.

A bellow of victory rose from the remaining ranks of the enemy. Chants of 'Kill the King! Kill the King!' swept enemy ranks in a wave, and orcs and Dunlendings alike prepared to charge towards the gaping remnants of the gateway.

Oh, no! If they reached the ravine behind the Deeping-wall, Halwyn, and all the others who took refuge in the caves, were history!

With a fresh burst of energy, Neville sprinted across the battlements towards the staircase that led to the narrow walkway.

"Molly! Molly!" he yelled, hoping against hope that she could hear him above the racket of baying, screeching orcs, and the death cries of the newly-beleaguered Rohirrim. He waved frantically in her direction, screaming until his throat felt raw, but she was too busy engaged in battle to see him, let alone hear him.

Oh, for Merlin's sake! Was he a wizard or not? With a roll of his eyes, Neville touched his wand to his throat, all set to cast a Sonorus and yell at her to protect the other side of the gateway, when the sound of a great horn blared out over the valley.

Everyone stilled.

_Everyone._

For a few seconds, all activity in the Deeping-coomb stopped as ally and foe alike paused to harken at the mighty blasts resounding from the Hornburg.

"'Tis the great horn of Helm!" cried a proud Rohirrim a few feet behind him.

And Neville didn't need to question the pride in the man's voice: the reason was obvious: everwhere he looked, Saruman's army were throwing themselves on the ground and covering their ears with their claws as blast after blast echoed off the cliffs of Thrihyrne.

"Helm! Helm!" shouted men all over the wall. "Helm is risen and comes back to war! Helm for Théoden King!"

Orcs, who only a few minutes before had barrelled _towards _Helm's Gate, now charged _away _from it as fast as they could.

And no wonder.

Because from out of the ashes of the ruined gate, with the great Horn of Helm Hammerhand to herald his arrival, rode a tall, proud figure on a white horse.

It was Théoden. The king bore a golden shield and a long spear. At his right hand was Éomer bearing Gimli before him, and behind him, Aragorn and Legolas preceded a long line of the lords of the House of Eorl. Molly flew overhead, throwing curses and jinxes left, right and centre to clear the causeway of remnant orcs so that they had a clear path down it. Light sprang in the sky. Night departed.

"Forth Eorlingas!" shouted the king. With a great roar, they charged down the causeway and hacked their way through the (depleted) hosts of Isengard like a Weasley twin with a Bludger bat. Down over the lawn they poured, out into the distant valley, and all those on the Hornburg Rock poured behind them. And ever the sound of blowing horns. Neville came to a standstill, gaping at them in dismay.

They were leaving! Molly, Théoden, and just about _everyone_ else, was leaving.

_Without him!_

Well, that was _definitely_ out of order! What were they ruddy well playing at?

Feeling more than a bit miffed (and really quite knackered, actually), Neville gathered his strength once more and tore after the dwindling ranks of his allies, determined not to be left behind.

"_Oi! Where do you lot think you're going without me?_" he yelled, racing down the stairwell, across the walkway, and out through the shattered gate onto the causeway, where he got a truly excellent view of the damage the charging Riders had already wrought.

If the battle had been in doubt when Neville rejoined his horsey allies on the wall, it was now clear that the Rohirrim were prevailing. Théoden and his troops cleared a bloody path through the ranks of Saruman's troops from the causeway to the Dike and beyond.

Which was handy, because it gave the seriously peeved wizard a clear (if gory) path as he dashed after them (cursing any unfortunate orc that so much as twitched in his direction - not that the wrath of Théoden had left _that_ many alive to bother him).

"Oi! You lot! Where the ... _Relashio! ... _ruddy hell ... _Reducto! ... _do you think ... _Expelliarmus! ... _you're going without ... _Tarantallegra! ... _me?"

The young wizard alternated between yelling at his (ex) friends, and cursing any enemy foolish enough to stumble into his path. He followed the thundering riders down the makeshift path with the sole intent of hitching a lift to wherever they were going. So intent was he on his path, that he paid absolutely no attention to the plight of his Devil's Snare cuttings (which were withering under the direct sunlight), or his lovely Venomous Tentacula (which had been hacked to pieces by the orcish forces - although not before they had taken a goodly number of the enemy with them).

It was with great relief that the company halted a few yards past the Dike.

Thank Merlin for that! Miruvor notwithstanding, he was seriously knackered!

Lacking the energy to run any further, Neville speed-walked his way to the front of the line (earning many, _many_ strange glances as he did so) and finally came to a winded, dizzy halt at Aragorn's horse. He lifted a heavy arm to tug at the ranger's boot.

"Where the ... ruddy heck ... d'you lot think ... you're going … without me?" he demanded, swaying on his feet and heaving with exhaustion.

"Master Longbottom!" exclaimed the (sickeningly fresh-looking) ranger-cum-prince-cum-healer, with barely concealed ire. "What in the name of Elbereth are you doing out of your bedroll? Lady Molly will slay you herself if she finds you have risen from your sickbed!"

Nonsense. Molly couldn't hurt a fly. An orc, yes. But a fly? Or a Longbottom?

"Why the ... bloody hell did ... you all ... sod off and ... leave me?" he gasped between huge lungfuls of air.

Aragorn sprang lightly from Hasufel and glared at him. "Because you were seriously wounded, young Wizard. And seriously wounded warriors have no business amidst the ranks of the final charge!"

"Seriously wounded? That's rubbish!" protested the teenager, alarmed to discover that the world was now tilting before his very eyes. He waved a (suddenly leaden) hand in dismissal and bravely attempted a casual grin. "A few Blood ... Replenishing Potions, a swig ... or two … of Miruvor, and ... Bob's your uncle! I'm perfectly ... alright! Perfectly ..."

With one final sway, Neville succumbed to his exhaustion and fainted (like a maiden). And though he would later (greatly) bemoan missing the arrival of Fangorn's walking trees, and Erkenbrand's valiant forces, it did at least comfort him to realise one important fact: the Battle of Helm's Deep was won.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Author's Note:_ Wow - a new chapter in barely over a week? It's just like old times, folks …

Kara's Aunty :)


	22. Visitors and Visions

**Disclaimer:**Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. and Lord of the Rings and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

**Credit: **www dot hp-encyclopedia dot com and www dot Tuckborough dot net.

**Please review - it really _is_ my only reward.**

**Not Quite A Maia**

**Chapter 22**

* * *

_Third Age 2nd March 3019_

_Imladris_

The White Wizard galloped across the narrow bridge which spanned the River Bruinen and through the archway at its northernmost end onto the courtyard of the Last Homely House. Already men and elves were gathering, dressed in the raiment of war, to meet their enemy. A collective gasp rose from the crowd when they realised he was closer than they originally thought.

"Halt, traitor Wizard! You may proceed no further without the consent of Imladris' Lord!" cried one of the men.

He spared the incensed man - a Ranger of the North - a cursory glance as he brought his horse to a stop and sprang from its bare back.

"Traitor Wizard?" snapped the enigmatic visitor. "Never before has Man or Elf addressed me as such, and now that they do, I find I do not take to it kindly. Yet, for the sake of friendship, I will do your bidding ... for the present. But see to it that you bring your lord to me this instant. Then we shall discover if his welcome is to be more or less cutting than yours!"

He pulled his ragged grey cloak further around his white robes and scowled at the ranger from under his hood.

"Friendship? What knows Saruman, fallen Istar of Isengard, of friendship? He is no more than a serpent! A Wizard who offers the cup of kindness with one hand and stabs his allies in the back with the other! Imladris needs no such friendship! Be gone!"

"Saruman may indeed be all that you claim and more. But it would bode you well to master your tongue, lest your words reach his ears and inflame his wrath! And I tell you this now, Halbarad of the North: before this hour is out, you will regret your words to me! You will fall at my feet and beg forgiveness for the harshness of your greeting!"

The ranger, startled to be addressed by name, took a step back in surprise. But then he, and every other man and elf in the courtyard, stepped boldly forward and collectively raised their weapons against the unwelcome visitor.

"You dare to threaten a guest of Lord Elrond's?" demanded a tall, blond, sword-wielding elf angrily. "You, who was once called friend by us, who have now turned your back upon us and thrown in your lot with the Dark Lord Sauron, _dare_ to enter Imladris and threaten our noble guests?"

Manwë's shining halls! He did not have time for this! Where in all the magic of Arda (which, these days, seemed to be rather a lot) was the master of the lands? If Elrond did not appear soon, he would have no choice but to seek him out himself (after he laid waste to all the flushed, angry people swing their blades at him).

"Lower your weapon, Lindir," commanded a familiar voice. "There will be no blood spilled on my courtyard this day."

The wizard tore his gaze from the furious minstrel-cum-warrior and let it flit to the back of the parting crowd. His eyes fell upon the tall, dark form of Elrond and he watched with some relief as the stately elf descended the staircase onto the courtyard, flanked by his twin sons and daughter.

At last!

The elf strode gracefully through the crowd and came to a stop a few feet away. His ancient grey eyes swept over the wizard's cloak, lingered on the hem of the robe protruding at his feet, then travelled back up to land on his hood.

"You hide your form from us, Saruman. Is it because you fear to look into the eyes of those you have betrayed?" enquired Elrond coldly. "Or is there perhaps another reason? Mayhap you are ashamed of your affliction?"

Affliction? What on Arda was he talking about?

"You seem surprised that I know of this, White Wizard - though perhaps I should now address you as Wizard of Many Colours. 'Twould be more fitting!"

A rumble of derisive laughter swept the crowd at the intruder's expense, and it angered him. Straightening up, he gripped the folds of his grey cloak and with one smooth (and rather dramatic) sweep, cast it from his back. Dazzling light burst from his white robes and stunned the onlookers enough to still their chuckles. Swords and bows clattered to the ground as all lifted their hands to shield their eyes.

"No Wizard of Many Colours am I, old friend," he boomed over the shying company. Elrond was the first to recover when the light dimmed. "There is no Wizard who bears more than one on these shores - at least none that I am aware of. I am but one colour, and that is White. I _am_ Saruman, one might almost say; Saruman as he should have been."

By now, his light had dimmed sufficiently enough for all to see him properly and a gasp of awe rose in the courtyard.

"Mithrandir!" exclaimed Elrond (looking shocked).

"Gandalf!" cried Halbarad (looking mortified). The man flung himself on the ground at his feet and (predictably) begged forgiveness for his harsh conduct.

"Nay, Halbarad. Your apology is not accepted because it is not required. Well do I know the stoutness of your heart, and its defence of Imladris' integrity was, at the time, a blessing to my ears …"

A lie. He had been ready to send the entire crowd into the depths of unconsciousness, just so he could get to Elrond that bit faster. But they did not need to know that.

"… as is the joy I see burning in you gaze now. Rise, my friend."

The ranger stood and offered a gracious bow before stepping back to the forefront of the crowd, allowing Arwen to move forward and envelop him in a hug.

"My heart sings with joy to see you once more, Mithrandir," said the beautiful elleth. She kissed his brow and beamed at him happily before rejoining her (still stunned) brothers.

But it was not long before the twins recovered their senses and, like everyone else in the crowd, began to fire questions at him …

"We thought you fallen, Mithrandir! How is it that you are come back to us?"

"Gandalf! Where have you been?"

"Did you not perish in Moria after slaying the unnameable terror? For that is what we have heard!"

"Praise the Valar for delivering you back to us! Will you remain long in Imladris?"

"Peace, my friends! So many questions, yet I have but two lips to answer them all and little time to spare in the doing of such! Is it not enough for you to know that I live and am come back to fight the power of Mordor? Now, I must beg your leave, for - above all else - I must speak privately with the Lord Elrond ere I do anything else."

Their faces fell in disappointment, but none were impolitic enough to continue with their barrage of questions. Elrond lifted a hand and the crowd followed his children's lead and began to disperse at his unspoken command.

"Come, Mithrandir," said Elrond, indicating the stairwell. "Give Falion the care of your noble steed and let us retire to the comfort of my study, where we may talk at leisure of your errand."

A dark-haired elf robed in blue and silver stepped forward to take his horse, but Gandalf declined.

"I thank you, Elrond, but I may not remain long enough to enjoy such leisure, welcome though it would surely be. I mean to establish only one fact of vital importance before I ride south. Forgive my haste, but I must ask: does a lady Witch enjoy the hospitality of your fair home?"

Gandalf's heart sank before Elrond could so much as verbalise his answer. The elf's face had already betrayed it.

"Nay. The Lady Augusta left yester-eve with Glorfindel to travel to Minas Tirith," replied Elrond, dismissing Falion with a nod. "My sons told me already of your interest in her, though at the time I thought you to be Saruman come to wreak vengeance upon her."

The wizard lifted a curious eyebrow and cast his gaze at the retreating forms of Elrond's children before returning it to his host.

"Fleet of foot indeed are the border guards if they reached your sons with news of my quest before I crossed the bridge. Yet, you speak of vengeance. What vengeance is this? Has it aught to do with your curious comment about a Wizard of 'many colours'?"

The elf smiled. "I will tell you more of that only after you tell me more of your own tale, Mithrandir. Come: let us at least walk in the gardens if you will not join me in my study."

Gandalf resisted the temptation to shake an answer from his friend. He would not get a word out of the infuriating lord until he first explained his presence.

Grumbling in annoyance, he followed his host over the courtyard to the gardens, indicating that Shadowfax remain until he returned. The horse was reluctant to do so, turning instead to follow behind them onto the grassy lawn. Elrond watched curiously as the beautiful creature trotted sedately for a few seconds (and then watched in wide-eyed horror as it paused to sniff at, then much on, his lovely begonias).

"'Tis a Meara, is it not?" he asked, with a slight note of irritation (the begonias were quickly becoming a mere memory).

"Indeed. Shadowfax is the lord of all Mearas and has been my friend through many dangers," answered the old wizard (trying not to chuckle as the stately steed moved on to the patch of elanor three feet away. Elrond was practically scowling - a look that did not sit well on his fair elven face). "Yet we do not walk to speak of his noble kind, beauteous though they are. You asked of my tale, so let me tell it now that you may, in turn, give me news of she whom I seek."

They paused at the grassy bank of the river and took their seat on a bench (while Elrond kept one eye on his ever-dwindling displays of blooms). The old wizard drew a pipe from inside his robes and stuffed it with Old Toby before lighting it. He inhaled deeply and (much to his host's disgust) blew a fragrant cloud into the late Winter's morning.

"One would think you had learned to be cautious of fire, if the tale of your deeds in Moria are true," muttered the elf, waving a hand before his face to dispel the cloud of smoke.

"Not all fires bring unpleasantness, Eärendillion," retorted Gandalf in amusement. "And the tales you heard from others may or may not be true, depending on how much they have been embellished. Let me tell you it from my own lips, that you may know the truth once and for all."

And so he related the tale of his death.

"When the Fellowship and I left Imladris, we travelled for many weeks, intending to take the Redhorn Gate over the Misty Mountains. But Saruman guessed at our path and sent blizzard and ice to make our passage untenable. Though my heart was heavy with the decision, we took the path through Moria instead. I knew that evil awaited me in Durin's halls, but I did not guess at its nature! It found us there, fleeing from Orcs through the Second Hall of the First Deep, and it pursued us until, finally, I fought it. It was Morgoth's spawn - I shall not name it otherwise - and we battled each other on the bridge of Khazad-Dûm. But in our struggle, I fell from there to the uttermost foundations of stone and he fell with me. His fire was quenched in the fetid pools that cover the deepest pits of that accursed place and he was little more than a thing of slime. Yet still he fought me, ever he clutched at me. And ever did I counter his blows until, eventually, he fled from my onslaught. Through the dark tunnels I followed him, up the Endless Stair until we reached Durin's Tower at the very mountain-top. There upon Celebdil was a space before a window where the sun shone fiercely and into that leapt my foe until his foul form burned once again with the fires of wrath. Yet, fortune favoured me even as the heat of his fire melted all the snows of the world and belched steam around us: I threw down my enemy and he smote the mountain-side as he fell to his ruin."

"And what of you, Mithrandir?"

Resisting the temptation to simply say, 'I died, came back and now find myself here,' (for he had already explained this to Galadriel, and would no doubt have to explain it again to the Fellowship - it was quickly becoming tiresome), he elaborated on that thought for the sake of his friend (silently promising to condense it for any other who asked, lest he curse them into the afterlife with the frustration of it all).

"Weary I was, with the struggles of so many days. My body was weakened by its labours and I fell into darkness. Long I travelled through the Void of Time and Space. I had no reason to believe I would be called back and therefore I wandered far on roads that I will not tell of. Not yet, at least."

"You perished and are reborn," stated Elrond, only a little surprised. "The Valar's beneficence is truly boundless."

"Beneficence indeed," remarked Gandalf with a curve of his lips. "Though perhaps 're-made' is a better word than 'reborn'. I remain still the Gandalf of old, with one exception. Manwë saw fit to grace me White, instead of Grey. He also informed me of the happenings in my absence, then bid me return to Middle Earth to finish my task - after a few words of rebuke for my lengthy journey in the Void, of course."

Although, in all honesty, it had been more than a 'few' words. Manwë was not a happy Vala, to say the least. In fact, the deity had been so annoyed with the errant wizard, that it was all his lovely wife could do to stop him _returning_ Gandalf to the Void for all eternity (through an act of violence which would have stemmed from the tip of Manwë's pretty blue staff).

Not that he would tell _Elrond_ that.

"Why was it that your journey was so lengthy?"

"Ah. That I cannot tell you. Nay, it is no use asking me more on the subject," Gandalf stated firmly, as Elrond moved to protest. "Time is already short and I have urgent errands abroad. Suffice to say that I met a ... a new friend ... and was so entertained by his excellent company that I did not realise I was required to retake the mantle of life. Alas, for my Fellowship! Would that I had known that death was not the end of my life, I would not have tarried so! Yet, in my prolonged absence, they have not been without aid, or so I am told."

"Indeed they have not. The young Wizard, Neville Longbottom, lends them the aid of his staff, or so I suspect," revealed his companion.

Gandalf arched an eyebrow. "You know of him? Ah, of course - from his grandmother. Indeed, Elrond; you are correct. When I returned to my form, I awoke to find myself lying naked upon the mountain-top; the Tower behind was crumbled and the stair was choked with burned and broken stone. There Landroval, kin of the Windlord, found me and bore me to Lothlórien where I spent many days healing - and many days learning of my successor and his Guardian while I awaited the arrival of Shadowfax."

Elrond blinked. "Guardian? Of whom do you speak, Mithrandir?"

Ah. It would appear his learned friend was unaware of the Lady Molly.

Which pleased him. It was always pleasant to catch the stately elf off guard (though it was, regrettably, an infrequent occurrence).

"I speak of the Witch who has been appointed as his protectress: the Lady Molly Weasley."

"_Another_ Witch!" muttered Elrond in something strangely akin to despair. "I hope for the sake of the Fellowship that she is not fond of tea."

Tea? What on Arda was he talking about?

"Nevertheless, it is a hope unlooked-for to see you once more, mellon nin," continued the elf without elaborating any further on his odd remark. "Great indeed was our grief when we thought you lost to the bowels of Moria. Imladris wept for many days."

Gandalf grunted. "Only days? That wounds me, Elrond. I would have thought an acquaintance as long as ours would have merited a few weeks of mourning, at least!"

To his amusement, Elrond rolled his eyes in disgust. "'Tis a pity you did not leave your poor humour to languish in the Void alongside your new 'friend'. I believe he may have welcomed it more than I!"

The White Wizard chuckled. "Perhaps he would have. But let us not speculate on that now. As I was saying, I arrived in Galadriel's haven where I found healing. As I did so, she told me much of this Neville Longbottom. From what I gather, he is a young man of skill and resolve, if a little clumsy on occasion. Which reminds me, the next time you visit your mother-in-love, you may wish to ask after her favourite Mallorn."

"Mithrandir, Lothlórien is populated with Mellyrn and the Lady graces each with her favour equally."

"Ah, but not any more. There is now a rather ... intriguing ... one on the border of the archery field. And, believe me when I tell you, it is a sight not to be missed. Although I suspect Haldir and his brethren would claim otherwise."

He drew on his pipe again while Elrond stared at him in mystification, no doubt wondering what the younger wizard had done to Galadriel's prized Mallorn.

After he exhaled, Gandalf continued his tale.

"It was the day before yesterday when we became aware that there was another Witch in Middle Earth. Gwaihir himself arrived that afternoon with the news that he had delivered a powerful Witch to your haven. At first, we thought he meant the Lady Molly, but he said nay. It was another - though he could not pronounce her name. He called her the Green Witch and said only that she sought her grandson. You can imagine our surprise, of course. I had known from Manwë that another was sucked through the Void, but he thought that person to be the spouse of Lady Molly, not the kin of young Neville. We flew to the Mirror to seek clues of her whereabouts, but the visions it gave were ever-changing. Yet one vision remained constant ..."

Gandalf trailed off, recalling the disturbing scene from the silver basin.

Elrond sensed his trepidation. "What did you see, Mithrandir? What is it that caused you to delay your return to the Fellowship and ride north to Imladris instead?"

The old wizard gazed at his companion in worry. "I saw the ruin of the quest. If Augusta Longbottom discovers her kin before Sauron is vanquished, Middle Earth may well fall under the Dark Lord's complete dominion!"

Silence reigned for several long seconds and Elrond paled significantly.

"What does it mean? How is that possible?"

"I wish I could say with more certainty that it was _not _possible, old friend, but I cannot. And, as of this moment, I am not entirely sure of how this would benefit our foes. For now, I can only say that the presence of the Lady Augusta will bring danger to her kin, and perhaps to us all."

His companion rose from the bench and began to pace with his hands clasped firmly behind his back.

"It grieves me to hear this, Mithrandir," said Elrond in dismay. " But Lady Augusta left yester-eve with Glorfindel and even now makes for Minas Tirith! I have already advised her not to seek out her grandson until the quest is ended, and she has agreed to this - albeit with reluctance. However, she was insistent on awaiting his presence in the White City. Aragorn will surely return there at some point, but the question is: when? Before or after the Ring is destroyed? If Aragorn journeys to Gondor _before_ the Ring is destroyed - accompanied by Neville Longbottom - they cannot fail but to hear of her. In which case, all may be lost. Alas, that we do not know where he or any of the Fellowship are at this moment! Yet how is it possible that this, of all things, may lead to our ruin? Tell me more of this vision!"

"The vision was brief. All I can say is that they must remain sundered until Mordor lies in ruin. If they do not ... events will spiral out of all control. The Enemy will use their moment of reunion to his own advantage - and with evil swiftness, too, I fear! I left Lothlórien as soon as I could to travel here and bid her remain in Imladris. Yet you now say they left yester-eve?"

His companion nodded.

"That news is not good. Still, it could be worse. On Shadowfax I may yet reach her before they pass the Misty Mountains ..."

"Nay, mellon nin. You will not. Her powers are not like your own. She has the ability to move from one place to another in the blink of an eye. Indeed, I have been witness to this very phenomenon myself! She bore Glorfindel and I both from Imladris to the pinnacle of Orthanc in less than one second!"

A sensation of dread crawled down the old wizard's back.

"Are you telling me she is already _in_ Gondor?" he demanded urgently, springing from the bench to face Elrond.

"Nay. She is only able to use this ability if she has already dwelled for a time in her intended destination. The Lady Augusta, like yourself, was a prisoner of Saruman's. Gwaihir rescued her from there as he had done with you before."

Gandalf almost choked. The Green Witch had been captured by his former leader? In the name of Arda - how had she managed to get herself into such danger? And by the Valar! Saruman was a fool indeed to send her - another _Istar_ (of sorts) - to the top of his tower a few short months after _he _had escaped it.

This thought he voiced aloud to Elrond.

"He had little choice in the matter. Although deprived of her staff, she was still able to enchant her voice to cast itself many hundreds of yards over his ill-gotten lands. I believe he - as well as his servants - were so distraught by her continued admonishments on his 'lack of hospitality', that he flung her upon the pinnacle before a rainstorm hit."

"And she, being exposed to the elements, would have quickly grown ill enough to lose her voice," guessed Gandalf correctly. "So, she knows Isengard, and possibly its surrounding areas. If she magicked herself and Glorfindel there and travels through the Gap of Rohan - presumably with horses ...?"

Elrond nodded. "Believe me when I tell you; you do not wish to know how she accomplished _that_. The repairs to my roof are still ongoing."

Startled for a second by the extraordinary comment, the wizard quickly regained his train of thought. "... then it will take less than a week on your Elven steeds to deliver them to Minas Tirith."

"Perhaps a day or two more, if they encounter the army of Orcs Saruman is shortly to unleash on the horse-lords. Glorfindel estimates they number in their thousands and is most keen to unleash his wrath on them. As is the lady herself."

"Thousands of Orcs? That will bode ill for Théoden's people, for their King is already under the enchantments of Orthanc, of that I am certain! Alas, that I tarried so long in the Void! Yet what does Glorfindel imagine that he and one mortal Witch can do to stop such a large army? One Elf and an old woman will not be enough to stay their relentless march."

"You say that only because you have not _met _the lady in question," said the elf firmly. "Magic or nay, she is the most formidable mortal I have ever encountered! The Rangers of the North quake in their boots when they see her. Admittedly, that may have more to do with the fact that she insisted they wash before breakfast. And possibly because she has enchanted all the ale jugs to fill with naught but Earl Grey - again, do not ask. Merely count yourself fortunate that you know not of what I speak."

Gandalf was temporarily lost for words (again), giving his friend a chance to continue extolling the lady's (rather alarming) virtues.

"Are you aware that when Gwaihir rescued her, she insisted on _returning_ to the hall of Orthanc itself to recover her staff before she fled? Or that, once there, the self-proclaimed Saruman of 'Many Colours' surprised her? But she wrestled her staff from his hand and bested him in battle. He is now _many _colours, indeed. Green, yellow and red, if memory serves me right. And, of course, there are the bosoms."

"Bosoms?" exclaimed Gandalf in shock (automatically clutching at his own, flat, chest).

Elrond nodded. "It would appear that the Lady Augusta does not take kindly to slights against the fairer sex. Something which Saruman was unaware of before he scorned her as too weak to wield a staff of power. I think it may be safe to assume that he has since come to bitterly regret those words."

The sound of astonished laughter filled the garden as Gandalf chuckled heartily.

"I see I shall have to approach her cautiously, lest I become the White _Witch_," he wheezed, knocking out the contents of his pipe (much to the elf's relief) and pocketing the empty receptacle. "And approach her I shall. I must leave immediately if I have any hope of intercepting her."

His host was understandably upset. "Mithrandir, you have only just arrived! You cannot mean to leave before you or your steed have at least refreshed yourselves?"

"I must, Eärendillion. My errand is now more urgent than ever. There shall be time enough for refreshment if Frodo completes his task - and if I find the Green Witch ere she finds her grandson," said the wizard as he turned and walked swiftly to the rosebush that Shadowfax was massacring.

Elrond moved swiftly behind him (then almost collapsed when he saw what was left of his beautiful flower displays - the Meara had been _extremely_ busy whilst the two immortals were talking).

"Shadowfax!" barked Gandalf. "I beg your forgiveness old friend, but we must leave this blissful place and ride with all speed towards Gondor."

The lordly horse swivelled its head towards its rider and regarded him solemnly - or as solemnly as it could with a red blossom hanging from its mouth. Lover of all creatures that he was, Elrond hoped the beast choked on it. His prize rosebush! His begonias! The elanor patch was completely wiped out. And the lilies - his wife's favourite flower! - now no more than a dozen rows of mutilated stalks!

"I was not aware that Mearas had such peculiar eating habits," the elf commented sourly.

Gandalf decided to ignore the complaint (for diplomacy's sake). He sprang upon the stately steed's back and gazed down warmly at his old friend.

"As dismayed as I am to leave without the knowledge that Lady Longbottom resides yet in your halls, it has done my heart good to see you again, old friend."

"And mine also, Mithrandir - though, if you return again, I would beg you do my gardens the courtesy of leaving Shadowfax in the stables. Or the field behind them, at the very least."

The old wizard laughed.

"Yet, Meara or nay, if you wish to intercept the Lady Augusta before she reaches Minas Tirith, you must go with the very swiftness of the wind at your heels. Nothing less will catch her now."

"Do not fear. Shadowfax once bore me from Rohan to the Shire in six short days. If any may now bear me to Gondor in that time or less, it is he. But before I leave, you may wish to bid the Dúnedain to follow in my wake. I suspect their Chieftain will have need of their aid in a very short time."

"Aragorn? Is he sundered from Frodo? Is the Fellowship broken?"

"I cannot say with certainty. You have also the gift of foresight, as do your children. Use that gift now to guide your actions. Though, I would counsel you: instruct any who leave that if they come upon Aragorn, and the young Wizard is in his company, they will not tell him of his grandmother's presence here. It may otherwise affect all his actions in our struggle against Sauron."

"Yet it will also make his shock greater if he is inadvertently reunited with her before Sauron falls," said Elrond sombrely. "What if _that _is the very thing which gives our Enemy the advantage?"

It was a valid point - one which Gandalf had already given much thought to. But he shook his head in dismissal of it.

"We cannot allow ourselves to second-guess the vision. It may be that you are right, or it may be that informing him of her presence will lead him to Gondor all the quicker. As it is, I have an ill feeling that his own presence here is not as secret as we would hope. Already word has reached Lothlórien that one of Sauron's servants has been felled - most likely by his hand. If that is so - and I suspect it is - then make no mistake: there will be a high price on his head. The Dark Lord's agents will be crawling through every city of the West for any sign of the Wizard that slew his Nazgûl."

"_What? _He slew one of the _Nine_?" exclaimed Elrond in shock. "Are you certain?"

"As certain as I can be, under the circumstances. I do not know how young Master Neville has accomplished this, but I am keen to learn. Mayhap his magic is of a kind that is fatal to the Nazgûl, or he brought with him a weapon of such terrible power that none are immune to its wrath - not even they. But one thing is certain: Sauron will know of this - and if he does ..."

"... then so, too, will Saruman. And neither will rest until they have the son of Longbottom - and his weapon, if it exists - in their grasp. But, wait!" said Elrond as realisation struck him. "Lady Augusta spoke of a 'valuable artefact' that he has brought with him. That may be the very thing which destroyed the Black Rider."

"It may. Such an artefact would be a prize for Saruman if he schemes to overthrow his unwholesome ally - and I have no doubt that he does - and a bane to Sauron if the boy wields it against any of his other servants. For this reason alone, it would bode well to keep the youth from any city of Men."

"Yet whatever this artefact is, it brings hope to my war-weary heart. It seems that our young friend is indeed every bit as competent as his formidable grandmother. Thank the Valar for their choice of him!"

Slightly miffed that (in the eyes of his old friend, at least) he was being outshone by a seventeen year old boy (and his very alarming grandmother), Gandalf discreetly nudged Shadowfax's head back in the direction of the remaining rosebush. The Meara happily tore another bloom from the bush and swallowed it, which had the equally happy effect of bringing an end to Elrond's gushing praise and making him frown instead.

"Your steed should exercise more caution," the elf offered (somewhat stiffly). "The bushes have thorns."

"How fortunate for him that he tears only at their petals," replied Gandalf (a little smugly).

Elrond scowled.

"And now, I bid you farewell, my friend," Gandalf said, nudging the horse towards the courtyard. Elrond followed beside him (frowning in disapproval at the hoof prints on his lawn). "With good fortune and fleet foot, Shadowfax will bear me to Minas Tirith before the Green Witch reaches it. If I find her in time, I shall bid Glorfindel bring her back to the Last Homely House until the conclusion of Frodo's quest."

"Then I wish you all the luck of the Valar, for you will need it if you are to persuade her to do as you wish. It may also interest you to know that she appears to be fully unaware of her true location and the gravity of her situation, though this would not be unusual if her kin and his Guardian were called to Middle Earth by the Valar and she followed by mere chance. Nevertheless, prepare yourself to meet a stubborn, scathing, strong-willed … yet completely fascinating lady. If she has not charmed her way into your affections in less than two minutes, I shall be astonished."

"I have not the time to be charmed."

The elf scoffed. "You will have no choice on the matter. She is exceptionally endearing - though if you tell her I said that, I shall name you as a liar."

Now Gandalf laughed. "Is the mighty Lord of Imladris perhaps a little intimidated by the lady?"

The mighty Lord of Imladris scowled again (but this time at his friend - and not the lawn, or the flower-loving Meara).

"I see death and resurrection both have addled your brain. It had the same effect on Glorfindel. Do you know, the brazen ellon has taken a full barrel of my best Dorwinion wine a-journeying with him, to celebrate his 'no doubt astounding success at slaying a thousand Orcs under the invisible enchantments of his Aunt'? Yes, I said 'Aunt'. Nay, do not ask why. I, too, may have my secrets. As it is, I now have but three barrels of wine left until Thranduil sends more."

"A _full barrel _of your best Dorwinion?" mumbled Gandalf thoughtfully as they reached the courtyard proper.

Elrond nodded.

Hmm. He had not known his fellow Balrog-slayer was such a lover of cups. Was it a result of his ordeal with Morgoth's flaming servant? Hopefully not: it did not bode well for Gandalf the White if it was. Middle Earth had no need of a drunken wizard at present (though he would not refuse _one_ glass if Glorfindel offered).

"If you see him, tell the thief of Imladris I want it back. _All_ of it."

"If I am not too occupied with trying to keep my chest from sprouting a mountain range of its own when I ask the Lady Augusta to return to Imladris - and if I remember that piece of information - I shall pass it on."

His host eyed him suspiciously. "Why am I under the impression that you would sooner help him drink the barrel dry than ask him to return it?"

"I have no idea," Gandalf replied, casually brushing at his white robe. "I shall be far too busy fighting the minions of Mordor to be concerned with the drinking of wine."

Most of the time, anyway.

"Then I bid you farewell, mellon nin, and wish you good speed. May the winds of favour bring you swiftly to the Green Witch, then just as swiftly return you to the Fellowship. I do not doubt they will be as overjoyed to see you as I am."

"_You_ cannot be that overjoyed to see me, Eärendillion; you are still scowling!" teased the wizard. "I hope that they are at least happier to see me than you appear to be, or I may have to fight your much-missed friend for the privilege of drinking the entire barrel of wine by myself in order to forget my sorrow! Farewell!"

With that, Gandalf the White nudged his magnificent steed into a gallop and raced across the courtyard, through the archway and over the bridge.

Leaving a highly irritated elven lord (still) scowling after him.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Author's Note_: Yippee! Gandalf's back! In a rather short chapter (for me, anyway), I admit, but it couldn't be longer without straying into later happenings. The next chapter will not be posted as quickly as this, but it will be longer (naturally).

Next chapter: Augusta and Glorfindel continue their journey to Gondor. But will they make it? Or will Gandalf the White intercept them beforehand?

Thanks for reading,

Kara's Aunty :)


	23. A Day in the City

**Disclaimer:**Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. and Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

**Credit: **www dot hp-encyclopedia dot com and www dot Tuckborough dot net, wapedia, cmhpf dot org/kids/Guideboox/RoofTypes, gb dot nrao dot edu & oh, so many, many, more...

**Please review - it really _is_ my only reward.**

**Not Quite A Maia**

**Chapter 23**

* * *

_Great West Road _

_Third Age 3rd__-6__th__ March 3019_

Augusta and Glorfindel rode for many days through the lands of Rohan. With the danger from Saruman's army gone, there was no longer any need to stay Disillusioned and they remained visible to any and all that cared to look in their direction.

Not that there _was_ anyone looking in their direction. In fact, they hadn't met another living soul in all their travels through Rohan. After crossing the Gap, they spotted the occasional group of riders heading southwest (presumably to Helm's Deep), but their own path lay not in that direction, so there was no opportunity to speak with them. There were also several charred huts and fresh graves, too - a testament to the bloody path of the orcs, as well as to the grieving Rohirrim that had found their slain landsfolk afterwards. But apart from that, there was no sign of life other than their own.

"Remarkably few people out and about," observed Augusta a day after passing what could only be the empty city of Edoras. It stood on a hill by the mountains and was ringed with a large wooden fence. Its gate remained firmly closed and there were no sentries standing guard, as she might have expected.

"Word will have reached them of the impending battle with Saruman's army," replied Glorfindel as they navigated their way across the little stream that flowed down the plain from the mountain. "Théoden would have sent warnings for all to retreat to whatever strongholds they have prepared for such an event. No doubt we shall find any villages near the highway as deserted as his City, for none shall be content to remain where once they were safe with such a threat abroad in their lands."

Hmph. The sooner Erkenbrand and all his splendid soldiers chased off the remaining legions of Orthanc, the better! Imagine not being able to enjoy a Sunday roast without the threat of malodorous miscreants barrelling through the door and ruining one's appetite? Disgraceful!

The days fairly flew by as they rode down the Westemnet, through the Eastfold and over the marshy borderland of the Fenmarch, passing from Rohan into Gondor as the Great West Road marched ever southwards before them. It led them through the dense trees of Firienwood, then out into Anorien, a province of northern Gondor.

"'Tis only a day's ride now until we reach Minas Tirith, Aunt," Glorfindel informed his elderly companion.

Augusta sighed gratefully. Thank Merlin for that! As delighted as she was to see the sights of New Zealand by horseback, she couldn't wait to reach civilisation once more. Oh, for a hot bath! And a proper loo!

A proper loo ...

It was at times like these that she wished she were a man. How very handy it must be to spring off one's horse, unleash the plumbing, water the plants (or write one's name in the snow. Men! What pigs they were!), then set off again without a care in the world.

But was it _that_ easy for a woman? Of course not! _She'd_ had to subject herself to the embarrassment of asking Floor-kindle to stop at least twice a day so that she could dismount and seek out a private spot to Conjure one! Fortunately, her nephew was always discreet enough to wait (_well_ out of sight) for her. Unfortunately, it seemed that his hearing was every bit as excellent as his eyesight - a fact that was verified after she experienced a bout of post-digestive mayhem one afternoon and almost blasted herself right off her magnificent loo and straight into orbit. When she'd returned (hobbling) to her lovely horse, he had rushed over to her to ask if she was quite well. It was to her very great mortification that the dashing chap had admitted to hearing some rather alarming noises coming from the tree she had chosen to conceal herself behind.

The aged witch flushed as she remembered trying to convince him she'd just been blowing her nose.

Ever since that unfortunate incident, she'd been forced to cast a Muffliato whenever she had to answer nature's call.

Oh, well. The journey was almost over.

"Wonderful news, my good fellow. I can't wait to lie down on a proper bed in a proper house for a change."

One with a proper, closeted, sound-proofed loo.

On past the (never-ending) White Mountains they rode, with Floor-kindle giving her a detailed narrative on all the points of interest from King Elendil's grave on the Hill of Awe to the history of Anorien and Ithilien. She learned a good deal about the Stewards of Gondor and how they became Ruling Stewards after the last King, Earnur, foolishly accepted a challenge by the Lord of the Nazgûl (whoever he was) and rode into enemy territory, never to be seen or heard from again.

"The line of Stewardship passes from father to son upon the Ruling Steward's death," her nephew informed her. "The current Steward, Denethor, is the son of Ecthelion II. Ecthelion was a wise and valiant Man, or so Aragorn says. He fortified the defences of both Cair Andros and Pelargir against the growing threat of Mordor. Let us hope his son has been wise enough to see to their upkeep, or Mordor's foul master will find it easy to strike the White City from both sides."

"It must be a dashed nuisance having such unpleasant neighbours," remarked Augusta. "I've never had any myself, living in a rather quiet village as I do. Everybody minds their own business and nobody intrudes on anyone else's privacy. Apart from Mrs McAvoy across the street, that is. She's always peeking over the hedges into our back garden. Nosy woman. But she's never tried to invade it, or sent a battalion of orcs over to rip up the rosebushes. Which is just as well, really. Neville doesn't take kindly to people fiddling about with his carefully arranged displays."

For the life of him, Glorfindel could not understand how she had managed to get from a mass invasion of Minas Tirith to garden displays, but he had learned by now to offer a diplomatic response whenever his aunt digressed into the ridiculous. After all, it would not do to openly question her sanity when she possessed the power to curse him.

"Ah. Indeed. The destruction of one's blooms is a thing of sadness. I am certain the Lord Denethor will be guarding them as valiantly as he guards his city walls," he said amiably (not really believing that Denethor would be wasting precious manpower simply to protect his roses). "We should arrive in the City by noon tomorrow. It would be wise to introduce ourselves to the Steward before we seek a residence for the duration of our stay."

"Do you think that's wise, young man? We are supposed to be incognito, you know. That means not telling anyone that I'm a witch, in case we alarm the Muggles. And not telling the Steward we're waiting for Neville and Aragorn - the very fellow who is going to put him out of a job in the very near future. I don't think he would take too kindly to that."

"I am aware of that. Nevertheless, I will not be able to remain long in the City without word of my presence reaching his ears. I shall be easily recognisable as a ... erm ... _visitor _... and he may take offence that I have not paid him the courtesy of an introduction."

Take offence? What the deuce was he talking about? He would be just another face in the crowd, for Merlin's sake! As would she. Why should the (temporary) ruler of the land care if he was there or not? A city the size of Minas Tirith must surely have plenty of tourists coming and going. Did the Steward demand an audience with all of them? Heavens, he'd never get any work done if that was the case!

"I don't quite understand why our presence should spark his interest, young man. He'll be far too busy opening supermarkets and decapitating reporters."

This she knew because she had a (secret) subscription to the Daily Telegraph, a Muggle newspaper, and there were usually (eerily still) photographs of Prince Charles or Princess Anne performing similar duties (the princess was often to be found swearing at reporters who'd followed her onto the 'under-ground' train to take pictures. Not that she blamed the poor woman for being annoyed at them. However, as a member of the House of Windsor, it _was_ her duty to comport herself in a more regal manner. Instead of swearing, she should simply order their heads chopped off. The Beefeaters at the Tower of London would surely jump at the chance to get back to their roots and resume guarding prisoners, as opposed to acting as overdressed tour guides).

Glorfindel nearly fell off his horse at the thought of Denethor decapitating _anyone_, let alone a reporter (whatever that was. Perhaps a scout of sorts?). He recovered himself enough to answer his eccentric new relative.

"His interest shall be piqued because -"

He wondered how to describe the furore his presence would cause without mentioning the fact that he was an elf. The elderly witch had still not come to the realisation that this was the case - though that may very well change when they entered Minas Tirith - but he would prefer that it dawned on her naturally as opposed to having it forced on her. He did not wish to cause her any alarm by revealing the true state of her predicament before she was ready.

"- because there are not very many fair-haired people in the City!" he finished triumphantly, feeling very pleased with himself.

The news came as a surprise to Augusta. Her face creased into a frown and she threw him a look of some concern.

"What? No blonds in Minas Tirith? You can't be serious!" she exclaimed in surprise.

"I _am_ in earnest, Aunt. The good citizens of Minas Tirith are descended from Númenoreans and they were all dark of hair."

Merlin's beard! Why hadn't he told her that before? Gracious! If what he said was true, then with his pretty face and golden head, he'd be a magnet for all sorts of unsavoury attention. Women all over the city would be lusting after him, following him everywhere he went, begging him for a kiss (or worse). He'd create a riot every time he stepped foot outside the hotel. What if some love-struck lady had him abducted by her many brothers, then imprisoned until he agreed to marry her and father her children?

She looked at her nephew with new eyes. What a fine fellow he was to risk his virtue just to see her safely to Gondor! He must have known what terrible danger it would put him in, but it hadn't stopped him from volunteering.

"I could fix your hair for you, you know," she offered kindly. "One handy wave of my wand and you could be as dark as Elrond."

The elf was horrified. "Nay! Many thanks, Aunt, but that will not be necessary."

"But what if you're ravaged by a horde of screaming teenaged girls? _And_ their mothers? Not to mention the odd chap or two -"

Glorfindel eyed her in horror.

"- and then, of course, there'll be the dozens of unhappy husbands you'll have to contend with, if they think you're waltzing about the city seducing their wives. _And_ daughters. Possibly their grandmothers, too, depending on how well-preserved they are."

"I do not believe they will imagine any such thing!" protested her companion hotly.

Hah! That's what _he_ thought. He'd obviously never heard of the Italian Rapscallion, Fabrizio Tucci: a late seventeenth-century wizard who moved to Muggle London and spent the better part of two decades using his Mediterranean good looks (and several Seduction charms) to bed the ladies of the royal court (regardless of age). Fortunately for Fabrizio, he survived the many assassination attempts by their infuriated husbands (with the aid of several hundred Notice-Me-Not charms). Unfortunately for Fabrizio, Charles II - a renowned womaniser himself - grew tired of the competition and ordered his arrest and subsequent castration. After the deed was done, Fabrizio was promptly released and spent the remainder of his days in a drunken haze, trying unsuccessfully to forget the loss of his virility and cursing the very mention of the Casanova King (in a _very_ high-pitched voice).

What if that happened to Floor-kindle?

But despite all her protestations, her dashing companion would not allow her to fiddle about with his hair colour and Augusta spent the rest of the day compiling a mental list of the spells she would need to defend him from the amorous women (and enraged men) of Gondor.

**XXX**

_Minas Tirith, 7__th__ March 3019_

The next morning after breakfast (which, for her, was now reduced to a simple slice of lembas and a cup of Earl Grey. Muffliato charms notwithstanding, she had no desire to eat the cold meat Elrond had packed for them after her digestive dynamics two days since), Augusta brushed down her coat, donned her hat (yet another replica - she'd lost the previous one to an arrow somewhere along the Gap of Rohan) and mounted Celebrithil with her companion's aid (such a gentleman, he was!). They set off on the last leg of their journey down the Great West Road and soon found themselves following its curve round the numerous White Mountains to their most easterly peak: Mount Mindolluin.

"Behold, Aunt: Minas Tirith!" cried Glorfindel an hour later, pointing a tapering finger directly ahead. They stopped their horses long enough to get a good look before approaching it further.

At the foot of the mountain was a hill almost seven hundred feet high. A rocky spur connected it to the mountain proper. The city itself sat on the hill and consisted of seven circular levels. A high, dark, stone wall encircled it at its base, but other than that, the city appeared to be made of white rock. A stone outcropping rose up to the sixth level and formed the battlement of the seventh. Augusta could see several towers dotted around the perimeter of the top level and a taller white one rose three hundred feet into the air at its centre.

Gracious! It was all very pretty, but she had to admit it wasn't _quite_ what she'd been expecting from a Muggle city. Where were the high-rise buildings? The telly-fone poles? The electra-city pile-ons? The peeping horns of those ghastly motor-cars, which she should have heard even from here? Why, there couldn't even be a public park for walking a dog behind those stone walls!

In fact, Minas Tirith looked almost _medieval_.

"Come, Aunt. Let us put this long journey behind us. Soon, you may know the comfort of a warm fire."

A warm fire? Well, medieval or not, the city should at least be able to provide that. And she was very much looking forward to it!

"That sounds like a splendid idea. Let's go then," she said, nudging her horse into motion.

They raced across the road towards the city's outer wall. Augusta caught the glint of the Sun's rays reflecting off water from the corner of her eye and swivelled her head eastwards to study the source.

"Is that the ... oh, what was the name of that river, again?" she asked, attempting to recall the name from the maps she had studied before leaving Imladris.

"The Anduin. Yes, it is. Upon its banks lies Osgiliath, which you may not see from here, but which should be visible from the higher levels of the City. I fear it will be the first place to fall when Sauron's forces attack, if it has not already fallen."

"Well, let's hope it hasn't," said Augusta firmly. "Though I suspect we'll find out soon enough once we reach Minas Tirith."

They continued on their way for over half an hour, giving the horses free rein to gallop across the road. As they drew nearer the outer wall of the city, they crossed to a smaller road which Glorfindel informed her was the North-way. The beat of hammers and clink of trowels greeted their ears as they approached and the Longbottom matriarch could now see that the wall had sustained damage to its structure. The North-way led to a gate around which were grouped several tall (dark-haired - her nephew wasn't exaggerating, after all), heavily cloaked men.

"Halt!" cried their leader, stepping away from his colleagues and holding a hand up in warning when he spotted them. "Who goes there?"

Augusta and Glorfindel pulled their steeds to a halt a few feet away.

"I am ... Archibald of Imladris," said the elf (sounding pained). "And with me goes my Aunt Augusta."

The sentry's eyes widened as he took a proper look at the noble warrior.

"By the Valar! Forgive me, lord. I did not expect to see one of the Eldar on this road! But what brings you to the White City at such a time?"

"I bring the greetings and goodwill of Elrond Half-Elven to your Steward," replied the elf.

"Indeed? I am Ingold, Guard of the Gate of Forannest," declared the sentry. He offered a bow (which impressed Augusta), before addressing Glorfindel again.

"Did I understand correctly when you said the lady is your kin?" asked Ingold, sparing the elderly witch a sceptical glance (which did _not_ impress Augusta - and why was the stupid fellow staring at her tights?).

"I did."

"Truly we know of your kind, Lord Archibald, but I cannot say that we have ever known one to be kin with a mortal woman. Aunt or nay, we wish for no strangers in this land, unless they be mighty Men or Elves of arms in whose faith and help we can trust."

Why, that uncivilised cad! Was she to be refused entry because she was neither a man nor a house-elf?

But her foster-nephew saved the day (and the sentry's life) with a quick rejoinder. "That cannot be so, Ingold. Many is the Dúnedain woman who can trace her ancestry back to Elros and beyond. They are distant kin to the Lord of Imladris as much as their husbands are, or would you refute that?"

It was enough to give the man pause. "I beg your pardon, lord," he apologised with a gracious nod at both the travellers. His eyes rested once more on Augusta, travelling from Spot, down her green coat, over the dress (which barely covered her knees while she sat astride Celebrithil) and over her woolly tights, before resting on her sensible brown brogues.

Gracious! Was he _ogling_ her?

Whether or not Ingold was 'ogling' her, he was not the only male present to be doing so. All his shifty friends had stepped forward to investigate the new arrivals and now five pairs of eyes were flicking between her dashing companion and herself (or, more specifically, her tights).

How rude!

"Is there a problem, gentlemen?" she barked in irritation. "Or is it the norm for Gondorians to gawk at an old woman's legs?"

There. That was enough to make the lascivious chaps avert their gazes!

Ingold and the others flushed. "Forgive us, lady. 'Tis merely that your manner of dress is most unusual. And what an_ interesting _hat. I have never seen its like."

Several of the men loitering in the background sniggered and Augusta glared hot coals at Ingold, convinced she'd heard him mumbling 'fortunately' under his breath. Lucky for him that she was a woman of her word or, promise or not, she would have gladly revealed her identity as a witch with a handy Horn Tongue hex!

The sentry spoke with Glorfindel again.

"Emissary of Imladris or nay, I fear that you may not travel farther into the City than the Pelennor Fields if you do not have the pass-words of the Seven Gates."

"I know all the pass-words, Guard of Forannest," replied Glorfindel, not the slightest bit fazed.

"And how is this when you have never before set foot upon the Hill of Guard?"

"I know one who has. Mithrandir entrusted many of those who are friends of Gondor with this information. I _am_ counted as a friend of Gondor, am I not?"

He asked the question casually enough, but the challenge was unmistakable and Augusta was pleased to see how very tall and stately her new nephew looked, sitting upon his horse and smiling benignly at the guards below. All of a sudden, there seemed to be a brightness about the statuesque blond (probably a trick of the light - it was a beautifully sunny day) and the Gondorians all bowed en masse.

"Indeed you are, lord. A most honoured friend. Allow me to delay you and your aunt no longer. Ride forth to the City at will and bring the greetings of our noble ancestor's kin to our Steward. It shall no doubt be welcomed, for there have been may strange portents here of late! Pass on now quickly. The Lord of Minas Tirith will be eager to hear news from the lands his son journeyed to so many months ago."

With that, he stepped aside and the crowd of men parted to make way for Asfaloth and Celebrithil. Augusta and Glorfindel passed through a narrow gate (after she threw a final, disapproving glare at the men who continued to stare in fascination at her withered legs) and out into a wide expanse of grassy fields which ran in a slope towards the great river. A few trees rose in the distance and there were barns and pens visible in some areas, but there were no signs of life among them other than a few soldiers making repairs to the main wall. The wall was highest several miles away from the main city gates, and towers guarded the passage from the Pelennor to the city of Osgiliath, which lay on the banks of the Anduin.

The aged witch viewed it all with interest as Celebrithil carried her closer to the tall gates of the lower circle.

Well. It all looked like a rather expansive front lawn, in her opinion. True, a lawn of exceptionally great proportions, but then it _was _the front lawn of a (soon-to-be) king's house. It was only natural he would boast an enormous garden.

Augusta followed Glorfindel to the large iron gates that barred entry to the city proper and he spoke with (yet more) guards (who couldn't stop staring at her legs. What was _wrong_ with these people?). Her companion obviously gave the correct password, for they opened the massive gates and allowed them into the lower level without any further ado.

The city itself was half-empty. Even in the lower levels, not many people wandered the streets. Those that did stopped to stare in wonder at the tall, stately elf and the indecently clad elderly woman with the strange hat. Augusta, having no idea that they were scandalised by the shortness of her dress, glowered at those who pointed in her direction before deciding that they were all quite mad.

Up through the levels they rode, passing through gates situated at various points. The witch's eyes wandered over the impressive houses and courtyards, noting that a few were falling into disrepair. This was true throughout the first six levels. When they reached the seventh, the travellers were stopped by black-robed guards with gleaming helms and informed that no horses were allowed in the Citadel.

Huffing in annoyance, Augusta dismounted and handed the reins of her horse to a waiting youth, who led Celebrithil and Asfaloth to (presumably) the stables.

"I do hope they remember to give her an apple or something," she remarked, watching the (dark-haired) boy lead her pretty mare farther away until they rounded a bend and were lost to her sight.

"Do not fear, Aunt. They will be housed in the Royal Stables during our sojourn with the Steward. They will find no better quarters in all Minas Tirith, of that I am certain," assured her companion.

The _royal_ stables? How very impressive!

Pleased that her mare was about to be treated like an equine aristocrat (and relieved she couldn't speak - wouldn't do to have her going all 'Princess Anne' on the locals and turning the air blue with her language), she accepted the offer of Floor-kindle's arm and approached the guards. But word of their arrival seemed to have travelled up the levels before them, for the guards did not challenge them for a password, instead allowing them free entry up the sloping path and through the gates where they passed into a white-paved court.

In the centre of the court was a merry fountain that sparkled prettily in the Sun's rays. A sward of green lay about it and over the pool drooped the most miserable excuse for a tree Augusta had ever seen. Falling drips of water splashed from its barren and broken branches back into the fountain.

What a jolly good thing Neville wasn't here. He would have an absolute fit if he saw that! If the Steward insisted on having a tree in his courtyard, the least he could do was see that it was taken proper care of!

She shook her head in vexation as they passed it and came to the doors of a great hall, which sat beneath the gleaming white tower she had seen from miles away. More guards waited there, but - again - they silently allowed them entry and soon the two were walking down a long, paved passage.

"We must be careful of our words here, Aunt. I do not know much of Denethor, but we cannot afford to give him word of Frodo's task, or the burden he bears. Nor must we speak of Aragorn until we have the measure of him. He may rejoice to know that the King returns, or it may be that he fears it and views our arrival as a herald of his own duty's end."

"Gracious! Weren't you at Elrond's meeting, young man? Didn't you hear me say I'm not in the habit of divulging other people's secrets?"

Glorfindel had the grace to flush.

"Forgive me. Of course I heard. I am merely anxious that he not discover our true purpose in his City."

Augusta gave his arm a fond pat. "Don't worry. I won't so much as open my mouth. Mum's the word, and all that."

A cloud of confusion passed briefly over her dashing nephew's face, but he accepted the odd phrase as another of her harmless eccentricities and moved on with his conversation.

"You should also be aware that - being of Númenorean descent - Denethor may very well be unusually perceptive, for a mortal -"

Good grief! Now Floor-kindle was obsessed with mortality. Would she now have to start suspecting him of sharing Elrond's penchant for Glamour charms? What a pity!

"- therefore, I urge you to guard your thoughts."

Wonderful. New Zealand was apparently _riddled_ with Muggle Legilimens. What a jolly good thing she was a superb Occlumens.

"Say no more. He'll not get passed _my_ defences," she said briskly, tapping her forehead with a bony finger.

The fair being sighed in relief and offered her a warm smile. A minute later, they came to a tall door of polished metal; Glorfindel raised a hand and rapped it smartly. The door opened, though neither could see who was responsible for doing so. With a final smile at each other and a collective squaring of shoulders, the witch and the warrior entered the domain of the Ruling Steward of Gondor.

**XXX**

Into a great stone hall passed Augusta and her dashing foster-nephew. It was lit by large windows at either side and tall black pillars rose up to support a roof laid with dull gold and colourful floral tracings. There were no paintings of kings or stewards of old, but between the pillars were the carved stone likenesses of the supposed monarchs and rulers.

At the far end of the hall was a series of steps leading to an empty throne, which sat under a canopy of marble that was (rather pretentiously, in her opinion) shaped in the form of a crown. Behind it, carved into the wall, was the image of a tree in flower, its entire form made of precious stones. Upon the broad lower step at the foot of the dais was a black stone chair, and on it sat an old man gazing at his lap. In his hand was a white rod with a golden knob. He did not look up as they covered the distance towards him and drew to a respectful halt three paces from his seat.

"Mae govannen, Lord and Steward of Minas Tirith, Denethor son of Ecthelion," stated Glorfindel boldly, preparing to once more swallow his pride (and thrill his aunt) with his next words. "I am Archibald of Imladris and I bring you greetings from Elrond, Lord of those fair lands."

At that, the old man finally raised his head and focussed his dark gaze on Glorfindel. There was a distinctly odd gleam in his deep eyes.

"_Archibald_? Are you in earnest?" he asked with the faintest tinge of amusement in his aristocratic voice.

Augusta frowned in confusion. What in Merlin's name was wrong with 'Archibald'?

'Archibald' flushed in embarrassment. What in Varda's name was _right_ with it?

"I see that you are," the Steward added when the elf clenched his jaw in mortification. "'Tis an unusual enough name for your kind, but I will not increase your discomfort by dwelling upon it. So, Lord Archibald, do you bring news of my son, Boromir? He left for your lands these eight months past, and eleven days ago I heard the Horn of Gondor blowing dim upon the northern marches. But there has been no sign of him since! What know you of his fate?"

"Alas, lord, I can only say that he left to return to your side not three months since. If he has not returned to you yet, then I know not where he is or what has become of him."

The old man sagged a little. "Ever since I heard the call of the Horn, I have dreamt that he is lost to me. If you say he left your lands so long ago, yet he has not returned here, then it can only be that he has perished, as I fear. My Boromir! Now when we have need of you. Faramir should have gone in his stead! His loss would not have wounded me thus."

As much as the fellow's distress at the possible loss of a child affected her, Augusta couldn't help but be shocked by his last words.

Was this 'Faramir' another son? And was his own father wishing him dead? What a dreadful thought for Denethor to entertain - let alone voice in front of two complete strangers!

Fearing that that was exactly what the Steward meant, Augusta was overcome with a rush of sympathy for Faramir and a wave of irritation at his possible father. She narrowed her eyes and harrumphed in disapproval, a sound which drew Denethor's attention to her. His neutral gaze swept her from head to foot and she bristled at the impertinence.

What a horrid man! Not so much as a 'Hello', or a 'How do you do', let alone a 'May I offer you a refreshing cup of Earl Grey and a Ginger Newt after your weary travels?'. What did the fellow mean by gawking at her like that?

"Mayhap you will be kind enough to furnish me with the name of your lady companion," said Denethor, returning his (unwelcome) attention to the fair elf. "Though, I hope for her sake it is a deal more flattering than your own."

Floor-kindle flushed and Augusta frowned. Why, that snowy-haired scoundrel! How _dare_ he slight her excellent nephew's name when all the poor chap had done was say hello! Before Glorfindel could open his mouth, she opened hers.

"I am Augusta Longbottom. I trust that _that_ name meets with your approval?" she asked in a polite (but clipped) voice.

Denethor transferred his gaze back to her.

"It is not for a woman to introduce herself when the question has been put to her protector, madam. It would be more becoming of you to practice silence until you are called upon to speak."

Glorfindel shut his eyes and groaned.

Augusta's eyes, however, almost popped out of her head.

_More becoming to practice silence?_

Why, she had never been so offended in all her life! At least Saruman had offered her refreshments before insulting her!

She clenched her fist, itching to forgo civility and shove it into her coat pocket to withdraw her wand, so she could Avada Kedavra the man well into the next century.

"If you imagine for one second that I require someone else to speak on _my_ behalf, you are very much mistaken, my good man! I am more than capable of speaking for myself and certainly well able to say my own name!"

"And a good deal more into the bargain," observed Denethor dryly, cocking a brow at her. "Very well, Mistress Longbottom. As you are so adamant that you speak your own turn, perhaps you may explain to the lord of this City why it is that you cavort through its many levels adorned as a woman of ill repute?"

"I beg your pardon? What on earth are you talking about?" she gasped, genuinely surprised.

Denethor extended a thin arm and pointed at her calf-length green dress.

"Your robes, madam," he said coldly. "You have been seen on every level of this City baring an indecent amount of flesh for a woman of your age. Indeed, for a woman of _any_ age. This manner of dress may be the custom from whence you hail, but in the lands of the Kings and Stewards of Gondor, no true lady would show her form so wantonly unless she was seeking the comfort and custom of strangers. Better would it be for you that you throw yourself from Mindolluin's peak, than seek to venture into my land with the intention of plying your trade."

Was the horrible man _actually_ accusing her of being an old slapper? A wrinkly harlot? An aged tart? A trollop? A hussy?

A _prostitute_?

Cold fury seared through the scary granny's veins as she glared at the frowning man in affront. How very _dare_ he accuse her of being a lady of the night! And in front of her (sort of) nephew, too! Whatever happened to diplomacy? Respect? Chivalry?

She drew herself up straight and tall (or as tall as her five feet one inch frame would stretch to) and prepared to teach the odious chap some manners.

"I 'hail' from England. You have heard of England, have you not? No? Well, perhaps you should employ more reputable cartographers. In any event, where I come from, no true _gentleman_ would dare address a lady in the manner you have just used with me. I am a subject of Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II and a well-respected member of society, and I have never _plied my trade_ in any corner of the world! As for these lands, from what I've heard, they are most certainly _not_ yours. You are little more than a glorified caretaker - and a dashed uncivilised one at that!"

Denethor practically sprang from his chair. "You dare chastise me as you would a recalcitrant child?"

"Well, if you stopped acting like a recalcitrant child and started acting like a responsible adult, you might find I'd address you as such!"

"Madam, you test my patience!" snapped the Steward angrily.

"Lord Steward, I beg that you would but calm yourself. You must understand that you caused the lady great offence. A lady who is held in high esteem by Elrond of Imladris."

"Indeed? And is that because she successfully plied her trade with him? Truly she must be a 'lady' of some skill to please such a noble Elven lord!"

"_Enough!_" cried Glorfindel angrily. He took a furious step towards the dais and glowered at the old man. "Never in all my days - and they are many in number - have I heard such wicked accusations against a noblewoman. Or indeed_ any_ woman - be she low- _or_ high-born! Steward or nay, your father would be ashamed of you! I have heard much of the greatness of Ecthelion and I hoped to find that same greatness in you, also. Alas, but it seems that I was mistaken!"

"And what know you of my father? From whence have you reports of him?" demanded Denethor, retaking his seat and studying the elf coldly. "Is it from the one who would usurp me as ruler of Gondor? Oh yes, word has reached me of the _hope _of Imladris. The orphan child of a Ranger of the North who would lay claim to the throne of Gondor. I know also that he was raised by your lord to stride into this very hall and ensconce himself as a King of old. Do you deny this?"

"I neither confirm nor deny it."

A harsh laugh.

"As I suspected. And what of you, bold mistress? What word has Elrond's esteemed lady friend of the Ranger, Aragorn?"

What she wanted to say was: "He and Sir Neville will both be along in five minutes to evict you from his pretty palace, you ghastly fraud."

What she actually said, was: "There is no such person."

It was an outrageous lie - and she uttered it without so much as a flicker of conscience.

"You deny that a child of Men was raised in Elven lands with the sole intent of sitting in yonder chair?" barked the Steward, pointing an imperious finger at the throne behind him."

Child of men?

"There have been many 'children of men' raised in Imladris, my good fellow!" retorted Augusta. "Why, I dined with three of them just over a week ago -"

Though the children she was referring to were Elrond's own, and all fully grown.

"- and not one of them expressed any interest in moving to Gondor with the sole intent of usurping you. So it rather appears that you have been gravely misinformed."

"I think not, madam. My source is very reliable."

"What 'source' would that be?"

"That is not your concern!"

Gracious! How rude!

"I know for a fact that one known as 'Aragorn', lived in Imladris for several years and was reared by the lord of the lands himself!" insisted Denethor.

It was a surprise to both Augusta and Glorfindel to find the man so well informed. In fact, the Steward spent several long seconds studying her dashing nephew carefully for any telltale flicker of his features that would confirm his report. But the older man didn't know her companion as well as she did and Floor-kindle was much too clever to betray his emotions so easily to a stranger. Nevertheless, she knew the handsome fellow well enough by now to recognise that he was rattled.

Oh, dear. How very bothersome of Denethor! Still, perhaps she could save the day?

Adopting her best Sunday face, Augusta casually put her hands behind her back and crossed her fingers (so that the - absolutely massive - lie she was about to tell wouldn't _really _count).

"I'm sorry to have to repeat myself, but you _are_ mistaken. If your source got wind of any child in Imladris, it must have been one of the other Rangers' sons. Elrond is a very friendly chap and he plays with all their children when they ask it of him. He's also a firm favourite with them at story time, thanks to his enormous library. In fact, they often re-enact the histories of Gondor _and_ Rohan. Little boys do so like to play at being kings. My own son was much the same. As for this 'Aragorn' person; well, your source obviously only heard his name in passing, because they've mispronounced it. The person they were probably referring to is Ara_gog_."

Both Steward and elf looked at her in wide-eyed surprise.

"Aragog?" queried Denethor, thrown by the easy manner in which she offered the information.

"Yes. _Aragog_. Bit of a black sheep. Refuses to visit his father in Imladris. They've had a bit of a falling out, apparently. Haven't spoken in years! It's quite the scandal. Something to do with Aragog marrying a hag. Well, someone's got to, haven't they? Anyway, Aragog's father is not Arathorn; that poor chap died a bachelor. it's _Halbarad -_"

Glorfindel almost choked.

"- and Halbarad was none too pleased when his wayward son jilted Elrond's daughter, Arwen, and ran off with Hilda the Horrible instead. Elrond was rather furious himself. Banned poor Aragog from his home because he upset his pretty daughter."

The Steward's brow crinkled in suspicion. "I am certain you said that this ... person ... refused to enter Imladris of his _own_ volition, not that he was banished by the lord of the land."

Oops.

Augusta did some furious back-pedalling.

"He can just as easily refuse to _go_ back, as stay away because he was banished, can't he? Elrond banned him for breaking Arwen's heart, and Aragog refuses to return to the place anyway because his father called his fiancée a 'hairy brute'. Nasty business, if you ask me."

Glorfindel nearly collapsed.

"I have never heard of this _Aragog_," declared Denethor in mounting irritation.

"Then it seems to me that you need a more reliable source. One that investigates these matters a bit more thoroughly," insisted Augusta. "In fact, depending on when you sent him, he may even have _seen_ the poor fellow! Of course, if your source is so unreliable with names, then chances are that he's equally unreliable with faces; though how your spy could have missed him is quite beyond me. Aragog _is_ a big chap. Bulging eyes. Lots of bristly hair. Very leggy."

_Very_ leggy.

"I know of no such person. My report was most specific. It is Ara_gorn_," drawled the Steward.

"No, it jolly well isn't. It's very definitely Ara_gog._ And, believe me, he hasn't set one foot in Imladris in years -"

Let alone all eight.

"- and he most definitely _isn't_ on speaking terms with Elrond -"

Which was the absolute truth.

"- let alone ever been a ranger."

Although he might have eaten a few.

"No. Aragog now lives the hermit's life in the forest with his family and, as an unofficial ambassador of Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II, I can solemnly promise you that he has never harboured a desire to be the King of Gondor. I don't even think he knows where Gondor is. Well, he wouldn't, would he? He rarely leaves the forest these days. He and Hilda live in marital bliss with all their...striking...children."

Well, she couldn't say 'pretty children', could she? Who knew how hideous the offspring of a spider and a hag might be? 'Striking' was a much more diplomatic adjective.

Denethor was, by this time, completely two-footed.

"Forest? Which forest? And who is this Queen of whom you speak? I have never heard of her!"

"Merlin's beard! What do you mean, you've never heard of her? She is the Queen of Great Britain and Northern Ireland! One of the longest reigning monarchs in the world! As for Aragog, he lives in the Forbidden Forest."

Oh, dear. They wouldn't have a Forbidden Forest here, would they? Dash it all! What a silly mistake to make! And Denethor was now glaring at her more suspiciously than ever.

"My aunt means _Fangorn_ Forest," supplied Glorfindel pleasantly. Denethor transferred his glare to him, but the towering blond simply smiled beatifically.

"You know of this 'Aragog'?"

"I do," lied Glorfindel (every bit as smoothly as his 'aunt').

"Yet you thought not to mention it when I enquired about the hope of Imladris?"

"I thought it impolitic to correct your mispronunciation of his name, and even more impolitic to give details of the _private_ anguish of those I call friends..." retorted the elf (with a wry glance at his aunt), "...especially to one not of their immediate circle. Though, I must admit to curiosity: from whence does the Steward of Gondor have this curious report of Imladris?"

"That is of no import. What is of import is that I have your absolute assurance that this ... Aragog ... and his offspring will remain in their forest for the rest of their natural lives."

"You have the word of not only myself, but of Elrond of Imladris on that," said Glorfindel (not realising how very truly he spoke).

Denethor nodded curtly in satisfaction.

"Very well," he drawled, allowing his canny gaze to flicker back and forth between his two guests. "Yet, now that we have established that Aragog has no claim on Gondor's throne, it does appear that your long journey to my City has served little purpose."

The old man let his gaze fall on the elderly witch, placing extra emphasis on the words 'my city' (no doubt to annoy her - how very childish). But Augusta stood ramrod straight and stared right back at him, refusing to be cowed by his intense scrutiny (and grateful he wasn't gawking at her legs).

"And why is that?" she enquired politely.

"As welcome as the greetings of Elrond Half-Elven are, they will not still the evil which flows towards my gates from the Black Lands. Therefore, if you are not come to Gondor with an army to our aid, and you seek not to spy for a false King, I fail to see why you have come at all."

A very good point. Dash it all, the old chap was shrewd.

But so was she.

"I insisted on coming."

"Indeed? And may I enquire as to why?"

No, you may not, you egotistical, paranoid, chauvinistic, power-mongrel!

"Certainly. I've heard a great deal about Minas Tirith and its hospitable ruler and I very much wanted to see it."

It was obvious to any fool that her host was struggling to suppress a sneer.

"At such a time?" he demanded. "When the wolves of Mordor bay at our very gates and their evil master plans his greatest assault on this City - an assault that will surely bring its downfall?"

Gracious! Whatever happened to positive thinking? No wonder the few people of Gondor they had seen on the way up had been scowling so fiercely. Their tin-pot ruler had no backbone!

"It's not an _ideal_ time for a holiday, granted. But there was nothing available in Blackpool - it's always busy at this time of year, you know," said Augusta matter-of-factly. "Gondor was recommended to me by a friend as an alternative and I thought it might be nice to see the sights _before_ it was overrun with orcs."

Glorfindel groaned (again).

Denethor scowled (again).

"Then I am happy we were able to resist the Dark Lord long enough to be able to oblige this yearning, madam," snapped the (not very pleased) Steward. "Tell me; what friends do you have that speak so highly of my City?"

Oh dear. None. She couldn't exactly say 'Aragorn' after the fuss she'd made about a forest-dwelling Aragog (not that she'd ever actually _met_ this Aragorn chap, anyway), and she didn't know anybody else outside the borders of Imladris who may have visited the city (with the exception of Saruman, whom she did not count - though it might be interesting to see Denethor's reaction if she told him the rabid scoundrel had sent her).

Hmm. What to do?

Be creative, of course!

With as pleasant a smile as she could muster (which almost killed her), she prepared to lie (yet again).

"It was Bilbo Baggins, of course."

Of course.

Denethor favoured her with a sceptical look. "Bilbo Baggins? I have never heard tell of such a person."

"Well that's hardly surprising. It was a while ago. Minas Tirith is rather a big city and Bilbo is rather a small fellow. It would have been very easy for you to miss him. Why, he probably spent all his time in the restaurants, eating the proprietors out of house and home! He has an enormous appetite, you know."

To her immediate right, Glorfindel fought desperately to control the desire to sink his head into his waiting hands and shake it in despair.

"I see," said the Steward, clearly unimpressed. He turned to his other guest, who plastered (what he fervently hoped passed for) a serene expression on his face. "And you have accompanied the...lady...as a protector?"

If he called her 'lady' in that dubious manner just one more time, she might very well completely forget that she was one and slap his patrician face!

"Indeed, lord," answered her new nephew with a touch of ice in his voice. "_Lady_ Longbottom is my aunt. As such, it is both my duty and my pleasure to accompany her wherever she wishes to go."

Ah. She knew her smashing young relative would defend her honour!

But Glorfindel's comment had piqued the Steward's interest. He leaned forward in his obsidian chair and gazed intently at the elf.

"Your aunt? How can that be? She is..."

Denethor didn't get the chance to finish before Glorfindel interrupted.

"She is kin from my father's line," said the elf with an elegant arch of his eyebrow, silently daring the Steward to contest the claim.

The Steward did not contest it. Instead, he reclined back in his seat with a half-smile hovering on his lips. "Is she, indeed? If you claim it is thus, then who am I to argue? No doubt you know the lineage of your own kin better than I, unusual though it be."

Unusual? What the deuce was the silly man talking about? There was nothing unusual about it! People _were_ known to have elderly aunts. Why, she had three of them herself!

Well, perhaps not three. Not anymore. Aunts Margaret and Elspeth had both succumbed to old age more than twenty years ago. Only Aunt Agnes was left. Her decrepit relative was still going strong at the ripe old age of one hundred and forty nine; a feat the ancient witch attributed to living in a clay hut in Namibia with her seventh husband, Nangolo Shipanga (a marriage which, upon its revelation five years earlier, had caused scandal in the echelons of the Knitting Bee; although less so for the groom being a dewy-eyed foreigner with a charming accent, than for him being forty years younger than his not-so-blushing bride).

"Unusual?" echoed her strapping nephew. "Only for those who live not in Imladris. For those who do, 'tis the most natural thing in Arda."

A lie. But Augusta had to give the younger chap credit: he did it well.

Not well enough for the far-too-astute Steward, unfortunately.

"There are many things in Arda that are natural. It is natural that a son follows his father and rules upon his death, or that a daughter follows her mother's example and weds young to provide her husband with an heir," he said (incensing the now-glowering granny with his blatant sexism). "But it is not natural for a lord of reason to submit to his aged aunt and follow her halfway across the world during a time of war, placing both their lives in danger and indulging her selfish need to 'see the sights'."

It was an outrageous slur on both their characters and neither Augusta nor Glorfindel were happy to hear it, but their miserable host continued before they could object.

"I think it likely that you have another agenda for your visit to Minas Tirith, one which you choose not to reveal to its lord. I also think it likely that, were one of you not of the Firstborn, you would have been able to conceal your presence in the City more easily and would not be standing before me now. You may count your fortunes rich indeed that you are what you are, Archibald of Imladris, for all know that your kind do not look favourably upon Sauron. Were this not the case, you and your...aunt...may have found yourselves enjoying Minas Tirith from the less loftier position of its dungeons."

The air in the hall grew suddenly chilly. Denethor grasped the arms of his chair with his hands and leaned forward once more to glower at them.

"Do you think that the eyes of the Tower of Ecthelion are blind? They are not! Do you believe that its lord sits in the years of his dotage and misses all the workings of the world outside his borders? He does not!"

"What on earth are you talking about?" demanded Augusta.

"I talk of this, madam: eight months ago my eldest - most cherished - son left these halls to visit those of Imladris and has not returned. The threat from Mordor has grown exponentially since his departure. Osgiliath is about to fall, no thanks to Gondor's Captain. Sauron advances from the east and his wicked allies from the south. The days grow darker, though Spring knocks at our gates. The doom of the West is upon my people and now - in our darkest moment - strangers from the north risk their very lives merely to 'visit' Minas Tirith, as if she knew no more immediate danger than the threat of an autumnal breeze. Do you imagine I am so foolish as to believe this a coincidence?"

"A coincidence to what?"

"You sport with my intellect, madam. Do not pretend you know not of what I speak."

Augusta clenched her jaw and eyed the insufferable man with a frown. "Clearly I have no idea what you're talking about! So unless you imagine I have the power to read your mind -"

Which, damn it, she didn't! She wished now that she had studied Legilimency, as her father had suggested. What the deuce was the stupid fellow babbling on about?

"- then I strongly suggest that you elucidate on the matter!"

"I speak of the rumours that another has entered the West: one with the power to stand against the Dark Lord himself! One whose allegiances are as yet ... disturbingly unclear. To me, at least."

The Steward rose and glared at the silent couple.

"One who possesses a weapon of such terrible power, that it is able to slay a servant of Sauron himself!"

Glorfindel took an urgent step forward. "Of what weapon do you speak?"

"I speak of a weapon that has reduced the Nine to the Eight! A weapon that has the strength to smite a Black Rider of Mordor."

"Impossible!" stated the elf firmly. "There is no such weapon."

The lord of the land gave a bitter smile. "Ah, but you labour under a misapprehension. There is."

"And what know you of it?"

"I know that my guards have already captured at least two enemy agents who successfully infiltrated my City and were searching for the one who wields it. Sauron has set a high price on the head of the one who slew his Nazgûl."

"If that is true, then we should rejoice that such a weapon exists and praise its bearer for his exacting aim."

"No doubt I would, if the Dark Lord's agents had not already murdered five of my people in their fruitless efforts to apprehend both weapon and bearer," snapped the Steward. "Yet it seems that this slayer of the undead is reluctant to show his face in the cities of Men. But perhaps this is not true of the cities of Elves? What say you, Lord Archibald? Have you a pet Sorcerer secreted in Imladris?"

"Imladris keeps no pets, son of Ecthelion. Only friends. But I will answer your question: there is no such Sorcerer in my home, nor has there ever been. Nor have I heard of such a one in Lothlórien or Mirkwood, or even in the Grey Havens," Glorfindel informed the Steward honestly. "Yet, as saddened as I am to hear of the death of your people, I do not understand why you would treat reports of such a champion with open hostility. Surely you must view the demise of a Nazgûl as a victory for the West?"

"That may be. Yet as fair as the report was when it fell upon my ear, fey was the realisation that such a weapon exists! If its bearer is a friend - and not an enemy - to the West, why has he not openly declared himself?"

"Lord, one of the Nine Riders is dead - beyond the power of recovery of even its master. What further declaration of friendship do you require, lest it be for him to march into your hall and swear allegiance to yourself? But perhaps that is indeed the point? You would have this stranger ally himself with Gondor before all others?"

"I would have him ally himself with those that are most in need of his aid!" declared Denethor, angry that the elf had seen through him so easily.

"If this person exists, then there are many who are in need of his aid, not merely Gondor."

"Yet Gondor it is that faces the most imminent threat from Mordor!" exclaimed the old ruler. "Too long have we stood alone against the power of the Dark Lord, bearing the brunt of his malice while others languish under the veil of their own blissful ignorance. Too many have we lost already to the Orcs that flow through Ithilien! Why should more Gondorian blood flow to protect the likes of Rohan and all the Elven havens, when they send none but a lone warrior and an old woman to do little more than _visit _us in our hour of need?"

"Gondor stands not alone against the threat of Mordor, Lord Steward. That your people perish faster is a matter of geography, not abandonment! Your land borders Sauron's, Rohan's and those of the Elven havens do not! And if the eyes of the White Tower were so far-seeing, they would know that Théoden already faces war from further west, for Saruman has grown an army of his own and unleashed it upon the horse-lords not five days since!"

Denethor narrowed his eyes and studied the elf, then the witch, before stepping back and resuming his seat. He thumped the rod against his knees as he digested Glorfindel's news and the two visitors watched him silently, waiting to see if he would speak again. Finally, he did.

"Perhaps this champion has rushed to the aid of Rohan's King instead?" he suggested. "But then, _you_ would know the truth of this already if you passed through his lands. You cannot have failed to have heard report of this mysterious avenger."

"We heard nothing of the kind," announced Augusta firmly.

The Steward locked eyes with her. "Then it is strange indeed that you journeyed through Rohan without incident when Saruman the White sent an army to crush it. How comes this to pass?"

"We were lucky, I suppose. Rohan is rather a large country. We must have missed the army altogether on our way through it."

Which was a lie. They had successfully _hit_ the army several dozen times, if not more.

"You managed to avoid the path of an _entire_ army? What great fortune you enjoy!"

"Fortune favours the bold," replied Augusta sagely.

"Bold indeed, madam!" declared Denethor, watching her carefully. "But it can be no coincidence that _you_ are here at this time when there are reports of such happenings abroad. A Nazgûl is slain, and days later a woman of strange speech and manner - to say nothing of dress - appears in Minas Tirith, claiming to be the...aunt...of a lord of Imladris and expressing a desire to see the sights! Who is to say that that the mysterious avenger is not a woman? For none that I know have seen him."

Good heavens! Did the crusty old goat actually believe that _she_ was the one prancing around New Zealand slaying the local troublemakers?

Oh. Actually, he may have a point. She _had_ taken care of several hundred stinking orcs along the Gap of Rohan (not to mention uruk-hai, wargs and a few unlucky Dunlendings). But she hadn't so much as _sniffed_ in a Nazgûl's direction (whatever the deuce that was).

But it was apparent to her who had.

_Neville!_

Yes! Her boy was cutting a swathe of terror through the maniacs of Mordor with the help of the Sword of Gryffindor. There was no other explanation for it! And - if she hadn't been so busy trying to navigate the minefield that was an audience with the Steward of Gondor - she might very well have hugged the miserable old codger for sharing the splendid news with her!

Or perhaps not. Denethor was about as warm and cuddly as Grodek, and she would have disembowelled herself with her own wand before she ever hugged _that_ disgraceful mutant. But, as proud as the news of Neville's spectacular victory made her, she would never admit to her host that she knew the identity of the 'mysterious avenger' in case he made the connection to Aragorn as well.

So she arched an eyebrow and addressed the man with a tone of incredulity instead. "If you are suggesting for one second that _I_ am the very same person who finished off the nose-ghoul -"

"Nazgûl, Aunt."

"- yes, yes. Thank you, Archibald -"

The elf turned crimson at the reminder of his shame.

"- then I'm sorry to have to disappoint you. I am not responsible for the demise of the silly creature. As you can see, I have no 'weapon of terrible power' on my person, other than my sharp tongue, of course - though I'm certain that you're far too intelligent a person to believe that I'm capable of _scolding_ a nose-ghoul to death."

Although, perhaps not. After all, she was probably the only person alive capable of accomplishing such an impressive feat (as her grandson would very shortly be able to testify to. When she got her hands on that boy...).

"Furthermore, I am no more likely to go dashing through the wilds of Rohan dealing out death and destruction to all and sundry, than you are to throw yourself off the Citadel. I _am_ an old woman, you know. And a grandmother!"

"And a most beloved _aunt_," added Floor-kindle, taking her hand and settling it protectively on his arm as he stared at the Steward in challenge. "_My_ aunt. Or would you name me as liar, son of Ecthelion?"

So firm and steady was his declaration, that Denethor finally capitulated.

"Nay. Mayhap you are right. I could not deny such a bond, even were I wont to do so," admitted the man (with great reluctance), watching the elf smiling fondly at his (rather bemused) relative. "Very well. I accept your claim to kinship. As to your purpose in Minas Tirith? Whether you be the spies of a benevolent Elf or innocent travellers, the hour is late for any true mischief on you part. Any friend of the Lord of Imladris can harbour no ill will towards Gondor. And so, allow me now to bid you both welcome to the White City. As foolish as I hold the lady's travels to be, I will turn none from its gates who are held in such high esteem by Elrond Half-Elven, when he in turn offered the hospitality of his own home to my dearly missed son."

"You are most gracious, lord," said Glorfindel with renewed affability. He offered the Steward a bow (and Augusta attempted a smile, though - after the man's remark about her 'foolishness' - it was more of a pained grimace).

"Gracious? I would not be so quick to call it that. You may or may not know that the eastern bank of Osgiliath has fallen. It will not be long now until the Orcs do find a way across the Anduin and take the western bank. And when they do -"

The Steward bowed his head to stare at the white rod of his office.

"- when they do, then next it shall be our turn to taste their terror. It seems that your desire to admire this City of the Kings of old may result in your own doom. You will not think me so gracious at that time, I fear."

He pulled his gaze from the rod and settled it once more on them.

"Rooms are already being prepared for you both. The Lord Herion's home on the sixth circle is at your disposal. It is currently unoccupied, for his lady wife stays in Belfalas during her confinement and he is in the company of Ithilien's Rangers."

It was a great relief to Augusta that she and her foster-nephew had finally navigated their way to some sort of a truce with the Steward of Gondor - uneasy though it was. And, for his part, it was certainly decent of the dreary chap to offer them the use of an entire house during their stay (especially as she only had a single Knut with her, and had been debating whether or not she should ask Floor-kindle if he'd thought to bring any money for a hotel - something which would have caused her a great deal of embarrassment). But, heavens! Wouldn't this Lord Whatshisname's wife object to her home being invaded by strangers when she wasn't there to supervise?

"If you're sure the lady of the house would have no objections," she said, a little reluctantly.

Denethor didn't so much as bat an eye.

"The Lady Isilbêth would be glad to offer it for your convenience. It is but their City home. They live mainly in Ithilien, though that is abandoned at present because of the danger from Sauron's forces. She would not object to your making use of it, especially as you voiced concern on her behalf. Though, if I may suggest that you do her the courtesy of clothing yourself more suitably. She may otherwise be vexed to think that her home has become little more than a house of ill repute in her absence."

Merlin's beard! Just when she had begun to think a little more favourably of him, the blasted fellow had gone and ruined it all by insinuating that she was about to turn a respectable woman's home into little more than a brothel!

"I shall see to it that my aunt is furnished with more suitable apparel this very afternoon, lord," said Glorfindel pleasantly (holding the lady's twitching wand hand in a death grip).

"That would be wise. I bid you good day, Archibald of Imladris, Mistress Longbottom."

The Steward raised a hand to his right and a tall, burly guard stepped from behind a pillar to show them from the hall.

With one final scowl at the sexist old misery guts on the black chair, Augusta allowed herself to be led (dragged) from the hall by Floor-kindle (before she triggered a major international incident by hexing the Steward) and through the polished doors, back out into the long corridor.

"Do not allow yourself to be too distressed by his manner, Aunt," said Glorfindel in a low enough voice that their guide could not overhear them. "Denethor is a Man with many troubles. He faces the threat of war and has no allies at present to aid him still the tide of darkness flowing from the east; his once-glorious City is falling into ruin around him; its people are fleeing from Mordor's onslaught and his heir may more than likely be lost to him. The days are not kind to him of late."

Augusta spared her nephew a glance, then returned her gaze to the long stretch of corridor that would lead them back onto the grounds of the Citadel.

"You may be right. He's obviously got a lot on his mind and I _do_ feel sorry for him. It can't be easy having to deal with so much on his own. But, heavens! What an insufferably dour fellow he is! And so very suspicious!"

"Indeed. But as awkward as our meeting was, we have learned much from it. We now know that he is aware of your grandson's presence -"

Ah. So Floor-kindle had reached the same conclusion as she had about Neville.

"- and desires his allegiance. He is not aware that young Neville travels with his greatest rival, which is fortunate for us. However, it appears that the Steward is a proud Man and will not be willing to relinquish his office so easily, which may make matters difficult for Aragorn when he comes to Minas Tirith. We also know that he has gathered disturbingly detailed intelligence from as far away as Imladris, though we know not how he has achieved this."

Glorfindel trailed off, looking troubled. Augusta patted his arm briskly in an attempt to draw him from his worry and he smiled briefly before continuing.

"Be that as it may, I have you to thank for your quick thinking in that regard. But perhaps you would be kind enough to tell me if there is such a person as Aragog, or if you called him into being merely for the purpose of outwitting the Steward?"

Now Augusta smiled. "Of course he exists! Though he's not so much a _person,_ as he is a spider."

The elf stopped short, forcing her to come to a sudden halt and he stared at her incredulously.

"A _spider_?"

Augusta casually brushed an imaginary fleck of lint from her sleeve. "Yes. A very big one - at least as tall as you, if not taller. And he really _does_ live in the Forbidden Forest."

"You allowed the Ruling Steward of Gondor to believe that a _spider_ is the Heir of Elendil? That a _spider_ shuns his role as future leader of the West? A _spider _that abandons the beauteous Arwen to live in a forest with a _hag_?"

"My Lord, my Lady, is aught amiss?" enquired the guard, who had stopped a few metres away to stare at the curious couple, wondering why they weren't following him anymore.

"No. Everything is perfectly alright, my good man," answered the witch, pulling the astonished elf back into motion behind him. The guard nodded in satisfaction and continued to walk ahead of them.

"I really don't see why you're so upset, old chap," she hissed, as the guard opened the main doors and led them out onto the open courtyard. "Wherever the Steward got his intelligence from, I've managed to convince him that it's not quite what he thought it was. Aragorn could walk right into the Citadel this very minute and Denethor wouldn't so much as bat an eyelid - as long as he introduced himself as something other than Aragorn, of course. Perhaps Walter? Or Cecil? I've always liked them, though not as much as Archibald."

Glorfindel's fair form shook with merry laughter (drawing their guide's attention once more). "Ai, Aunt Augusta! You never fail to lighten my spirits," the elf said. "I do not believe that our absent friend would take to your suggestions for alternate names. Nay, be not offended! Only imagine: King Cecil of Gondor! It has not the same ring of authority about it, though it _is_ vastly more amusing."

Augusta huffed in annoyance. What was he talking about? It was a perfectly splendid name!

The elf's chuckles (slowly) subsided enough for him to continue. "Let us say no more of these matters at present until we are in the confines of our new quarters. We may talk at length there and with a deal more privacy."

He indicated the guard, who had slowed his pace in an attempt to eavesdrop on their conversation.

"Very well," she replied, glaring at their silver-and-black clad guide in disapproval. The man flushed and quickened his pace once more.

"Once we have talked, we may explore Minas Tirith," Glorfindel added brightly. He favoured his aunt with a sidelong glance. "And we must also acquire new garments for you before the day is gone, lest the Steward think you are still intent on seducing those Men that remain within his City walls."

He waggled his eyebrows, then laughed at her outraged expression.

"Can you believe the gall of the man?" she demanded angrily. "Me - Augusta Longbottom - a prostitute! I've a good mind to go back there and hex his clothes off! Oh, perhaps not. He might think I'm looking for business -"

Glorfindel laughed even louder.

"- but still! He can jolly well count himself lucky that he's a Steward and I'm a lady, otherwise I wouldn't think twice about Transfiguring him into a toilet bowl. _Plying my trade_, indeed!"

And with that, the merry elf led the incensed witch over the courtyard and down to the sixth level to begin the taxing process of making a 'respectable' woman out of her.

**XXX**

The rest of the afternoon passed a good deal more pleasantly for Augusta. She and her dashing nephew were escorted to Lady Isilbêth's beautiful townhouse. It sat a mere hundred yards from the stables (which was very handy - if the locals were as scandalised by her manner of dress as their miserable Steward, she might have to make a quick getaway) and boasted a small fountain in its wide courtyard. The house was a two-storied building with large arched windows, a wide balcony that extended around the perimeter of the first floor and a spectacular, Continental-style gabled roof.

How very French château!

The guard gave a brisk introduction to the housekeeper, Mistress Írildë (who practically fainted when she saw Augusta's hat, and actually gasped at the length of her dress), before he bowed and left to return to the Citadel.

Mistress Írildë was an attractive, rosy-cheeked woman in her early forties, wearing a simple black dress with a plain grey girdle-belt that hung just below her protective knee-length apron. She had dark hair gathered under a lacy white cap and sparkling grey eyes with thick dark lashes, which (much to Augusta's irritation) the lovely lady batted prettily at Floor-kindle (after recovering from the shock of the floozy grandmother). The elderly witch stuck her hand in her coat pocket and grasped her wand, ready to throw the very first curse in protection of her nephew's virtue if the woman so much as puckered her lips.

"My Lord, my Lady; follow me, if you please," said the housekeeper with a smile (aimed at the stunning blond, of course).

They were given a tour of the lower floor, which boasted three fully-furnished reception rooms, an elegant dining room and a truly enormous, old-fashioned kitchen. Ladles and whisks hung from hooks over the main preparation area; a huge open fireplace was already lit and the servants before it abandoned their rotation of the spit (which held an _entire_ pig) to curtsey at them (and ogle her companion). A generous pantry was stocked with smoked meats, baskets of fresh vegetables and sacks of rice and potatoes.

Next, they were led away from the kitchen (much to the servant-girls' disappointment) and through a short corridor to a study reserved for the private use of Lord Herion. Stacks of parchment filled a series of wooden alcoves at the far wall. Directly before the alcoves sat a mahogany writing desk with a heavy silver inkpot (shaped like a little ship) and two feathered quills sticking out of it (looking very much like sails). Shelves stocked with tall, ancient-looking books lined the right wall and Augusta stepped over to them to see what her absent host's reading preferences were.

"_An_ _Etymology of Númenorean Dialects. Great Battles of Gondor and the Outer Realms. Tactics and Strategies of Warfare. 1635-1637: The Years of Plague_," she mumbled, tracing a bony finger across the spine of each book.

Hmm. Nothing like a little light reading to pass the idle hours of the day ...

"Your employer is a very learned fellow, isn't he?" she asked absently of Mistress Írildë (who was taking full advantage of the old woman's distraction and had already cornered a rather alarmed Glorfindel by the window. She was busy flashing him her bare left hand - all the better to show him that she was very much on the lookout for husband number two).

"Aunt, perhaps we should not pry so into Lord Herion's private matters. Shall we not leave for the noon market to collect your new garments?" asked the elf (in a curiously high-pitched voice).

Augusta glanced up from the copy of _Periannath: Fact or Fiction?_ she had been browsing through to check on her nephew. He stood at the corner of the room by the window and Mistress Írildë, she was pleased to see, stood a demure five feet from him (the housekeeper having sprung back as soon as he'd addressed his aunt)_._

Excellent! The housekeeper had obviously decided against him and his virtue was safe, for the moment.

"I'm only looking at his books, my good fellow, not 'prying into his private matters'. And the shopping can wait a little bit. You don't mind if I browse, young woman, do you?"

"Nay, lady," said Írildë with an innocent smile. "Lord Herion would be delighted to know that another shares his interest in the lore of Middle Earth. I beg that you would take all the time you need to explore what you will."

Glorfindel paled, though Augusta was delighted.

How spiffingly accommodating of the young woman!

"Thank you. I might just do that," the witch said, turning back to the shelves and allowing her gaze to wander over the pristine forms of Herion's numerous volumes (while Írildë's not-so-innocent gaze wandered over the pristine form of her nephew).

A fat book with a red-and-gold-embossed cover caught her eye next. She pulled it from the shelf and skimmed the title: _The_ _Ancientry of the Elder Children of Ilúvatar_.

Hmm. A book on childcare, no doubt. How very odd to have it next to books about warfare and maps of the world. Still, he was an expectant father. Perhaps it wasn't so very unusual after all. She placed it back on the shelf. Childcare manuals were not things she would ever need again (not that she had ever needed them before. As far as childcare went, she had already _written_ the book!).

"Does your employer have any other children, young lady?" she enquired of the housekeeper while skimming one of the lower shelves.

"Nay. The Lady Isilbêth carries their first. Both are highly anticipating the babe's birth, though I believe the Lord Herion may be a little nervous," stated the younger woman in a oddly breathy voice. "I have told him not to alarm himself. Fathering a child is the most natural thing in the world. The most natural thing ..."

Augusta's brow crinkled slightly. What an odd comment. Surely the chap couldn't be nervous about that? He had done the 'fathering' part already! Obviously, the woman had meant to say '_being_ a father'.

She shrugged absently. "Oh. Well, the first time is always the worry, but he'll soon get used to it. Don't you agree?" she asked, using both hands to remove a two-feet-long volume of _Celestial Bodies and their Heavenly Arrangements._

"I could not agree more, lady," replied Írildë (who had, by this time, backed her own 'celestial body' into the mahogany desk and was scaring the life out of him by running her tongue across her lips).

"That's what I thought," said Augusta, balancing the book on the edge of one of the shelves and studying a map of the constellation of Orion (which the book called Menelvagor: Swordsman of the Sky). "Do you have children of your own?"

"My husband gifted me with three boys before he was killed last October, but they are all grown and now in the service of the Rangers of Ithilien."

Augusta broke from her study of the map to raise her head a little and frown. "I am terribly sorry for your loss, young woman. What a dreadful thing for you to lose your husband at so young an age."

"You are most kind, lady. But I have weathered the grief as best I must and look now to the future. Indeed, I hope to wed again one day. 'Tis no easy thing for a woman to spend her elder years alone."

Nonsense! _She _hadn't felt at all lonely since Mr Longbottom died, what with raising Neville and attending the Knitting Bee every week.

Deciding not to dispute the point, Augusta returned her gaze to the three stars of Orion's Belt. "Well, I'm sure a woman as attractive as you won't have any trouble finding a new husband very soon."

There was a strange sort of strangled moan from behind her and she looked up once more, twisting her head to see Floor-kindle sprawled across the desk and the pretty housekeeper (who had jumped away from him as soon as he'd whimpered) arranging the parchments in the alcove behind it.

"What on earth are you doing, draped across the desk like that?" she demanded.

"Ah, forgive me, Aunt," he said, flushing and pulling himself upright to straighten his ivory cloak. "I appear to have stumbled over the edge of the rug."

Gracious! She hadn't thought him to be such an oaf! Oh, well. Nobody was perfect.

Rolling her eyes at his clumsiness, she turned back to her book.

"I hope to find a new husband before this very week is gone," said the (still-breathy) Írildë somewhat belatedly.

The elegant drawing of Mintaka, Orion's westernmost star, was witness to the lift of Augusta's eyebrows. Heavens! She was keen, wasn't she? She'd only buried her poor husband a few months ago. Still, the Muggles of New Zealand were proving to be a rather odd bunch of people, living in the dark ages as they did. Customs must be somewhat different in this part of the world. Who was she to scorn them, tourist that she was?

"So, you've met someone already, have you?" she enquired politely, tracing the delicate drawing of the star with her index finger. What a pretty book! Such elegant script and detailed artistry!

"Oh, yes. I have met one who robs me of breath whenever I gaze upon him -"

The witch emitted a sigh of disgust. If the silly woman was going to give her a detailed description of the wondrous fellow's dubious charms, she may very well vomit.

"- who has the power to send my weeping widow's heart all a-flutter once more with the joy of love -"

Oh. Good. Grief.

Augusta tried to lose herself in the Girdle of Orion - while the housekeeper fiddled desperately with a girdle of her own. Glorfindel was in full panic mode: how to escape the woman's attentions (she was circling the table towards him) without alerting his aunt (who would surely kill her) and shaming the lady into the bargain?

"- and the hope of finally bearing a daughter."

"A daughter, eh? That's nice," said the witch, closing _Celestial Bodies and their Heavenly Arrangements_ and shoving it back into place between _Minas Anor and Annúminas: A Tale of Two Cities in the Years of Elendil_ and _Rhûn: The Undiscovered Lands_.

Heavens! How did Lord Whatshisname ever find the right book at the right time when they weren't even ordered alphabetically? Look at those shelves! Higgledy-piggledy and all over the place! A quick wave of her wand could fix it for the poor chap, of course. But not just now. Wouldn't want to tip off Miss Lovely Lashes to the fact that there was a witch living under her employer's roof!

Well. That was quite enough browsing for the moment. She'd have to come back later and go through the rest.

"Shall we go upstairs and look at the rest of the house?" she suggested, giving the books a final pat before turning round to face the others. The pretty housekeeper had returned to the window and stood with her hands clasped across her abdomen (holding her loose girdle in place - she hadn't had enough time to both fix that _and_ dash to the window before the peculiar foreign woman turned away from the bookshelves), while Floor-kindle stood at the other end of the desk with his hair in disarray, his cloak firmly wrapped around his body and a nervous tic making itself known below his left eye (it looked very much like he was winking at her furiously).

"I say; are you quite well, Archibald?" Augusta asked with a little concern. She had never seen him looking quite so ... dishevelled.

"Yes, Aunt. I am merely anxious to leave ... leave the study," he replied (avoiding eye contact with the love-struck housekeeper).

"Well, then. Let's do as I suggested and investigate the rest of the house," she said, heading for the study door. "Would you be so kind as to show us our bedrooms? I would like to wash my face and run a brush through my hair before we leave for the shops."

Írildë smiled sweetly.

"I would be delighted to show you to your bedroom, my Lady. And you to yours, my Lord."

The Gondorian woman - thrilled at the possibility of being (alone) in a bedroom with the statuesque elf - was already beginning to select a pretty elven name for their future daughter (who they would hopefully begin conceiving in about, oh, five minutes or so). She put extra emphasis on 'my Lord' and shot Glorfindel a meaningful sidelong glance (which Augusta missed completely).

The fair elf turned ashen.

Írildë exited the room ahead of the travellers, giving Glorfindel the chance to recover his equilibrium and rejoin his tiny aunt. He offered her his arm (more for his own sake than hers - the amorous housekeeper wouldn't attack him when his prim companion was hanging off it) and Augusta patted it fondly.

"See? Didn't I promise that I'd watch out for you? You made it through an entire five minutes in a very small room with a pretty young woman, without her so much as taking a take a step near you! And _I'll_ make sure that _none_ of them do! Shall we go, Archibald?"

'Archibald' gritted his teeth and resisted the (overpowering) temptation to slay her on the spot. Instead, he offered his most convincing smile. "Yes, Aunt."

And off they went; she to her bedroom, he to his doom.

**XXX**

Fortunately for Glorfindel, Augusta was very understanding (if rather bemused) at his insistence on waiting for her (in her bedroom) to finished her ablutions (behind a lovely tapestry screen). She accompanied both him and Írildë to view his room afterwards (much to Írildë's dismay - baby Isilmë would have to wait another few hours before she came into being, it seemed).

"It's a lovely room, isn't it?" commented Augusta, admiring the sunny yellow chaise longue sitting by a window at the rear end of the room, and the elegant tapestries on the walls. A set of glass-panelled doors opened onto the balcony, where a table and two chairs sat.

Marvellous! One could enjoy either breakfast in bed, or al fresco! How very Continental!

"The bed is exceptionally soft," said Írildë with a hopeful glance at Glorfindel. The elf moved with astonishing speed to the safety of his aunt's side (she was still admiring the balcony).

"I prefer a firm mattress, myself. Much better for the back," Augusta declared, opening the balcony doors and stepping outside.

"As do I," added Glorfindel firmly (lying through his teeth).

The pretty housekeeper gave the elf's back a longing glance. "I can arrange for the mattress to be changed," she said hopefully.

"That won't be necessary, young woman. I'll just stick with the one that's already there. Wouldn't want to put you to any trouble," Augusta replied, not realising the offer was aimed at her stunning nephew and thinking how very obliging the housekeeper was.

"Aunt Augusta, I believe we ought to leave for the market soon, before it disbands for the day. Do not forget our host's warning," cautioned Glorfindel (rather desperately - his admirer had taken a seat on the bed and was gently bouncing up and down on it, patting the space next to her in open invitation).

"Oh, alright. If we must. But, heavens, I do detest shopping. All that rushing around for hours on end, looking for something to wear. Spotting something barely passable in the very first shop one enters, but abandoning it in the hope that there's something better further up the street, only to end up back in the _same_ shop hours later and buying the stupid thing because everything else is infinitely worse! What a dreadful waste of time it all is."

Írildë had, by this time, abandoned the bed (and straightened it back down) and she stood demurely next to it when a very irritated Augusta (and a hugely relieved Glorfindel) left the balcony, closed the doors and passed back over the room.

"Well, young lady, we'll be off now. No doubt you'll see us again later - much later, if my experiences with shopping are anything to go by. What a blasted nuisance! Do you know where the nearest clothes shop is?"

"Mistress Mirwen has a large selection of fabrics and sundries at her stall on the second circle."

All the way down in the second circle? Botheration.

"Is there nothing a little closer?"

"Nay, lady. Not at present. Most of the seamstresses left the City this very morn on the last of the wains. Mistress Mirwen is the only one left. She refuses to leave her home of sixty years, lest it be ransacked by the foulness of Mordor."

Augusta highly approved. Mistress Mirwen sounded like a kindred spirit if ever there was one, and she could certainly walk all the way down to the second level and back again just to meet the spirited woman!

Oh. But wait a moment.

She stuck her hand in her dress pocket and pulled out the single Knut to stare at it balefully. Would the sorry looking article be enough to buy her respectability?

Glorfindel noticed her frown and stepped forward to her rescue. "I have the purse of coins you gave into my safekeeping earlier, Aunt. There shall be more than enough to purchase whatever you may require."

Of course, she had given him no such purse, but he would gladly pay for all the fabric in Arda if it got him safely out of the same building as the hormonal housekeeper.

"Purse?" echoed the elderly witch, sparing him a confused glance. She took note of the firm (desperate) look in his eyes and smiled warmly.

Why, he was sparing her the awkwardness of admitting she was penniless in front of the housekeeper. And offering to furnish her with anything she needed at the cost of his own pocket!

How very gallant!

"Ah, yes. Purse. I'd forgotten all about that! In that case, we'd best be off. Thank you for your hospitality, young lady. We shall see you again, shortly," declared Augusta, suddenly eager to leave the house. She straightened her coat, angled her hat and patted her hair firmly before exiting the room with (an almost ecstatic) Glorfindel in tow.

"I shall await your return as eagerly as the blossoms await the morning dew," Írildë promised, moving swiftly after them to favour her (not-so) beloved with a bat of her pretty lashes.

"Really? My, that's ... very nice to hear," remarked Augusta, a little confused at the lady's declaration. "It's always pleasant to have someone waiting at home to keep the hearth warm for one's return, I suppose."

"My hearth burns already, eager to warm the feet - or any other part - of a weary traveller."

Glorfindel gulped heavily.

Augusta nodded thoughtfully. Yes, well that would be the fire in the kitchen the woman was talking about. She had seen it earlier and, if she wasn't very much mistaken, there was a nice bit of roast pork awaiting them on their return from Mistress Mirwen's stall.

Excellent! No doubt she would be famished after spending a good chunk of Floor-kindle's money.

With a thin-lipped smile at the (really, _very_ pleasant) housekeeper, Augusta bid her a final 'Cheerio', took her nephew's arm and marched across the landing, down the stairs and out of the beautiful house, ready to put a dent in his (very tight) pockets.

**XXX**

Augusta spent the afternoon on the second circle looking for Mistress Mirwen's stall so she could begin selecting fabrics for her new clothes. It took half an hour of searching before they finally found it, for there were a mere half dozen stalls tucked into a corner of the broad street and not very many shoppers milling around them. In fact, the few people she and her nephew did see were very grim-looking indeed (even before they saw her state of dress). The stallholders made only half-hearted attempts to engage their custom, most of them far too busy peering over the wall that circled the level and out into the direction of the distant Anduin.

"They fear the coming assault," Floor-kindle explained discreetly. "Most of the Men have left to defend Osgiliath; those that remain are too old or too young to fight. Those ladies and children that have family elsewhere have already departed the City."

"Heavens! However do they hope to defend Minas Tirith if there's nobody left to man the city?"

"I suspect the Prince of Dol Amroth shall send those Men he may spare. But his land lies on the southern coast of Gondor, in the fiefdom of Belfalas. The coasts of Belfalas have a long history of strife with the Corsairs of Umbar, who ally themselves with Sauron."

"Ah. So they may very well have their hands full already, given that the stupid fellow is bent on ruling the world."

"Indeed. There are other regions with Lords who may despatch troops: Lossarnach and Lebennin, to name but two. But, again, they lie in southern Gondor and may also have trouble with the Corsairs or other Haradrim - particularly Lebennin. Lamedon, in western Gondor, may send Men to the City's aid, but they shall take longer to arrive as they are further away. We can but hope that Denethor has already sent for them, or they may not arrive in time."

"Is the danger from Mordor so imminent?"

The elf sighed. "I fear that it is. Denethor has already told us that the eastern bank of Osgiliath has fallen to Sauron's forces. I can but assume that Ithilien's Rangers have destroyed any bridges which connect the two halves of the City, as the Orcs stand not yet before Minas Tirith's walls. But it cannot be long before they find a way across the Anduin. It seems we may have to engage in battle once more, Aunt, before we see your Neville returned to you."

Not that _that_ came as a surprise to either of them.

"I'm sure we'll make the best of a bad situation, if the worst comes to the worst. After all, I still have plenty of stones in my pocket, and there'll no doubt be even more of the deuced miscreants to aim them at. And don't forget: we'll have the advantage of height -"

She pointed to the ascending spirals of the city walls.

"- and they won't, so it will be an uphill struggle all the way for those smelly orcs."

Her nephew grinned. "Once again, you have lightened my heart, Aunt. I begin now to wonder how I managed to endure the long years of my life so well, ere you came to Arda."

Or how he would endure them once she left it.

"Long years of your life, indeed!" muttered Augusta, wondering if 'Arda' was (yet another) name for New Zealand. "You're not a day over thirty and we both know it!"

Glorfindel grinned even wider. If only she knew...

"But you don't have to endure your life, young man. It seems to me that what you need is a wife to occupy yourself with. Once you have one of them, you'll find the years simply fly by!"

"Then perhaps _you_ would do me the honour of becoming my wife?" he suggested impudently. "For I have found that, in your esteemed company, the days pass as if they were mere seconds."

She blushed. "Why, you cheeky young scallywag! I ought to fry your toes off for that. I am a _grandmother_, you know! And a widow! Although, widowhood wouldn't automatically rule me out, I suppose. But I am far too old for that sort of nonsense!"

Her companion was shaking with mirth.

"If you're so keen on a widow, though, you're in the right place for one, what with all these poor young fellows marching off to die on the front lines. Take that lovely young housekeeper, for example. Her poor husband isn't even cold in his grave and she's already got her eye on someone else! Personally, if I were in her shoes, I would have waited at least a year. But, each to their own, I suppose. What a pity she found someone else so soon. She is a beautifully mannered, considerate and exceptionally pretty young woman. She would have made you an ideal wife!"

Oddly enough, Floor-kindle was not as amenable to that idea as she was. The smile left his face instantly and was replaced by a look of...well, horror, actually.

Oh, dear. She hoped she hadn't gone and offended the poor fellow. She hadn't meant to suggest he was a widow-worrier (which, as everyone knew, was the human Muggle equivalent of a sheep-or-goat-worrier, only without the shady Aberforth Dumbledore element attached). Fortunately, he soon recovered his good humour.

"Perhaps I shall wait a few years more before I commit myself to the path of wedlock. It may take me that long to find the lady who is suitable enough to replace you in my affections."

Replace her in his affections, indeed! If she'd accepted his jolly proposal in the first place, he would probably have died of fright (making her a widow again - sort of).

With an imperious sniff and another shake of her head at his nonsense, she allowed him to escort her to the only stall selling the much-needed fabrics for her new dress.

A portly woman of elder years smiled at the couple as they approached and Augusta assumed her to be the stalwart Mistress Mirwen. The lady was a very efficient woman who took one look at her customer's scandalously high-cut dress and whisked her into the safety of her own little house (directly behind the stall - how very handy) to take measurements before the witch even had the chance to view her wares. Floor-kindle waited outside, politely fending off the sudden gaggle of swooning maidens, matrons and old bats (the news that an elf was in the city had done much to cheer up the remaining female population) and Augusta shooed them all off when she exited Mistress Mirwen's minute home (they fled as soon as they spotted...Spot).

"Heavens! I am sorry, young man," she said to the harried elf. "I would never have left you alone if I suspected that would happen. Where the deuce did they all come from?"

"It appears the guard from the Citadel overheard our conversation with the Steward and told his sister you would be purchasing materials," he answered, straightening his hair and cloak (yet again). "She told her cousin, who in turn told her friend and they all spread the word that I would more than likely accompany you here. They arrived but minutes ago."

He leaned down to whisper in her ear. "I must admit that the thought of remaining under you Disillusionment charm becomes more attractive the longer we stay in the City."

Gracious! They had only been in the city for two hours and already the poor fellow wanted to disappear!

"Don't worry. I'll see if I can't come up with some sort of modified Muggle-Repelling spell for you the next time we leave the house. That should keep you safe."

Satisfied that she had solved his problem (and not realising that his biggest threat was still _inside_ their temporary home), she allowed the stall-keeper to lead her to her wares and they spent over an hour selecting bolts of fabric (all in various shades of green), girdle-belts (which she balked at, but both Mistress Mirwen and Floor-kindle insisted upon) and shawls. The friendly Gondorian woman (whom Augusta was very impressed with) promised to have the first gown delivered to her quarters the following morning (though how she would manage to whip it up so quickly without the aid of magic was beyond the elderly witch) and have the rest delivered before the week was out (if the city was still in one piece).

Happy that the task was done (though still rather miffed that her respectability had been called into question in the first place), Augusta took Floor-kindle's proffered arm, bade Mistress Mirwen a very good day, and allowed herself to be led back up through the circles of the city (glowering at any and all who _dared_ to gawk her legs). The thought of Mistress Írildë's very nice meal of roast pork was already making her mouth water and she had every intention of enjoying it. Perhaps she could borrow one of Lord Whatshisname's books afterwards and have a nice read in front of the living-room fire? With a nice cup of Earl Grey?

What a splendid idea!

In fact, the thought of an evening spent in a such a civilised manner was enough to make her forget the worry of her gallivanting grandson for a while. She strolled through the city levels listening to her charming companion's delightful conversation as if she had no other cares in the world. For a few precious hours, the impending threat from the east and Neville's dangerous adventures faded from the surface of her mind, and she allowed herself to simply enjoy both the novelty of her surroundings and the company of her dashing (if outrageously impudent) foster-nephew.

But all that was about to change. For in less than two days time, Augusta Longbottom would once more be languishing in the dungeons of a madman's home.

And not even Floor-kindle would be able to help her...

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Author's Note_: Some dialogue and descriptions taken from LOTR: The Return Of The King, Book Five Chapter I: Minas Tirith.

Yippee! Augusta and Floor-kindle in Gondor! The last part of the chapter may be a bit irrelevant, but I just wanted to show what the Yorkshire lass may think of the local environment and customs (and what the locals might think of her), as opposed to making the chapter nothing more than a load of non-stop action. Sometimes, it's nice to take a breather, and they deserve it after the long ride from the Gap of Rohan!

Next: A _very_ unexpected meeting for Neville and a warning for Aragorn.

Or is that Ara_gog_?

*cheeky chuckles*

Thanks for reading,

Kara's Aunty :)


	24. The Road To Isengard

**Disclaimer:**Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. and Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

**Credit: **www dot hp-encyclopedia dot com and www dot Tuckborough dot net,

**Please review - it really _is_ my only reward.**

**Not Quite A Maia**

**Chapter 24**

* * *

_Helm's Deep to The Gap Of Rohan_

_Third Age 4__th__- 5__th__ March 3019_

When Neville regained consciousness, he was floating through a forest amidst the ranks of a small group of riders.

Oddly enough, the forest appeared to have sprung up in the Deeping-coomb.

Hmm. Could that be?

His eyes flitted groggily from side to side and he saw the unmistakable cliffs of the White Mountains rising up forbiddingly.

That was weird. Where had an entire forest come from overnight? It hadn't been there on the way in, he was sure of that.

Too exhausted to attempt the question of his companions, the teenager allowed his eyes to droop closed once more and fell asleep.

It was a dark when he roused again. The company was camped roughly half a mile from a shallow gorge. Soothing voices surrounded him and the unmistakable pop of a campfire crackled a few feet away. As his eyes opened, he saw Molly sitting close by. To his left was Aragorn, with Legolas and Gimli on each side of him. Several more riders were scattered in small groups nearby, talking in low voices and staring out at the night. Neville heard the faint trickling of water somewhere to his right by the gorge.

Feeling alert enough to rise, he began to pull himself into a sitting position, but before he could so much as raise his head, Molly threw a concerned glance in his direction and sprang up to meet him.

"Don't even think about it, Neville Longbottom!" she snapped. "If I so much as see you _stir_ from that stretcher without my permission, I'll Stun you!"

Blimey! What was wrong with her?

"Molly, I only want to ..."

"Don't you 'Molly' me!" the red-haired witch barked (in an alarmingly scary voice). "I left you in those caves to recover from your injury, and what do you do? Drag yourself outside to let the orcs inflict more!"

Her indignant tone drew the attention of their companions and he squirmed in embarrassment as several heads swivelled in his direction.

So, she was angry with him, eh? Not that he could blame her. Dashing frantically after his friends when he was only half-recovered had been a fairly stupid thing for him to do.

"Sorry, Molly. I only wanted to help. Anyway, the orcs didn't inflict any more injuries, did they?"

Perhaps that wasn't the smartest comment to make…

Indeed it wasn't. The Weasley mother's face was now almost as red as her fiery hair.

"That's hardly the point! Blood Replenishing potion isn't an instant cure - it takes time to work. You can't just spring out of bed a few hours after getting it! You're supposed to rest. You almost _died_!" she hissed, jabbing a disapproving finger at him. "Do you think I patched you up just to let those horrible creatures take another shot at finishing you off?"

"I'm really sorry, Molly. I didn't mean to worry you. I won't do it again, honest," he promised, feeling incredibly guilty for alarming her. She glowered at him for a few seconds more and, uncomfortable with the attention, he averted his gaze, letting it scan the countryside instead. The light of several small campfires illuminated the dim night for several yards and he could almost swear he saw bodies lying near the gorge. "Are those orcs? Have we been fighting again? Where are we?"

"Yes, they are. No, we have not. They were there when we arrived, casualties of an earlier battle. Their number is too great to move at present, for all are fatigued and neither your Guardian nor I wished to leave you to see to the unhappy task until we are both assured of your recovery," supplied Aragorn, answering his first two questions with a gentle smile. "As for where we are; we crossed the Fords of Isen this very morn and shall arrive at Isengard no later than noon tomorrow. How do you feel, young Wizard?"

"Confused. Why are we going to Isengard?"

"To treat with Saruman."

Oh. Of course.

"Er, why?"

"We go to accept his unconditional surrender."

That came as a surprise.

"What? Are you saying he's surrendered? What've I missed?" demanded Neville, ignoring Molly's frown and pulling himself up on the litter to stare at the ranger.

There was a snort from behind and the teenager twisted his head to see Éomer sitting a short distance behind him (mere feet from Fælu, he was disappointed to note).

"It matters not if he _offers," _said the blond man darkly. "We have defeated him in battle. He has no option but to surrender himself to us."

"Among other things," added Aragorn mysteriously. He smiled at the teenager once more. "But you have not fully answered my question, Neville Longbottom. I asked after your well-being."

"I'm fine."

Another snort, this time from Molly.

"That's what you told that nice young woman in the cave before you sprinted after us and collapsed," she said accusingly, making him fidget uncomfortably. Fortunately, Aragorn intervened before she could berate him further.

"Does your arm ache? Or your stomach roil?"

Neville shook his head, feeling rather stupid that he was half-reclining in the company of kings and princes (_kings_ and _princes_! If Gran knew he was best mates with royalty, she'd combust with the pride of it).

"No. Arm's fine. A little stiff, but nothing I can't handle. Stomach too - though it is rather empty. I'm starving." He gave Molly a cautious, wide-eyed look. "You don't happen to have anything to eat on you? Maybe a bacon sandwich or something?"

His gaze was half-hopeful, half-imploring and he wondered what his chances were of being fed in the next five minutes (the fact that several dozen dead orcs lay less than a hundred yards away didn't quash his appetite in the least. In fact, if Molly didn't feed him, he might pop over and find a nice meaty one to roast on the fire...)

"Bacon sandwich? I'll _bacon sandwich_ you! If you ever do anything so recklessly stupid again, I'll _turn_ you into a bacon sandwich!"

Oh. Not good, then. Orc was coming dangerously close to the top of the menu.

He sighed despondently, then glared at Gimli when the dwarf urged Molly to carry out her threat.

"I feel the need of a little sustenance myself," the hirsute dwarf added, grinning at the scowling teenager from behind his smouldering pipe.

"I beg that you would spare our young friend such a fate, Gimli," said Aragorn lightly. "We have lembas aplenty if you need to sate your hunger."

Gimli sniffed in disdain.

"Lembas? As much as the taste of it is pleasant, it cannot compete with a goodly slice of red meat!" the dwarf declared, eyeing the wounded boy hungrily.

"If you don't stop looking at me like that, I'll turn _you_ into a ruddy bacon sandwich and eat you myself," vowed Neville grumpily.

Legolas' musical laughter filled the air when Gimli fumbled for his axe (all the better to carve the impudent youngling into sandwich-sized slices).

"Gentlemen, there will be no bewitching of friends to feed the hungry this eve," said Aragorn (smirking). The ranger looked over at the (still glowering) Weasley witch. "What say you to allowing our foolish young companion to sit astride his horse for the remainder of the morrow's journey, my Lady?"

Molly briefly pursed her lips and, for a moment, Neville thought he was condemned to the floating litter for the next few days. Thankfully, she relented.

"As long as he does nothing more strenuous than sitting, I might be alright with that."

Oh, great. Whether or not he did anything more strenuous than sitting depended entirely on whether or not the ghastly nag Théoden had gifted him would chuck him off her ruddy back!

No sooner had the thought of his mare passed through his mind, than a shadow loomed over his head and he looked up just in time to see a huge glob of drool falling from her whiskery lips to land on his forehead.

"Yuck! Geroff!" yelped Neville, wiping furiously at his face and glowering at the chestnut horse (who had pulled herself free of her picket and charged past Éomer in order to check on her erstwhile rider).

"She misses you," remarked the blond man, grabbing her reins with a large hand to pull her away. He scratched her ear fondly. "It is little wonder. She has not known your company in nigh on two days, due to the battle and your subsequent ... erm ... incapacitation."

"You fainted like a maiden on the battlefield, lad," supplied Gimli (with a broad grin).

"Dropped like a rock from the Deeping wall," added Éomer.

"Fell like a Summer's rainstorm over the Westfold," announced Théoden grandly (who had just completed a circuit of the camp's perimeter and now wandered over to see how the teenager fared).

Great. He was the laughing stock of Rohan.

"Yeah, well I was a little dizzy," Neville said in his own defence, plucking absently at his elven cloak.

"And whose fault is that?" demanded Molly. "You can't expect to be up and about in a matter of hours after an injury like that."

She jabbed a finger in the direction of his arm.

"I said I was sorry, Molly."

"That may very well be. But I am supposed to be your Guardian. I'm _supposed_ to protect you. Keep you alive. Not let you get seriously wounded and then allow you to endanger your recovery by running about as if nothing happened in the first place. You could have died!"

And with that, the matronly witch choked back a sob, grabbed her broom, mounted it and sped out of sight. Dismayed, Neville watched her swiftly retreating form until she was a mere speck in the darkness.

"Do not worry, lad. Lady Molly is more angry at herself than you. She blames herself for not preventing the arrow from finding its mark in the first place, and then for not remaining with you as you healed, thus preventing your too hasty rise from your sick-bed."

The news surprised the teenager.

"But that's not her fault! She can't be expected to be everywhere at once! Or just to watch _my_ back when there's a massive battle going on! Surely she knows that? And anyway, I can take care of myself!"

Gimli and Aragorn snorted in unison.

"Of course you can, lad! That is why you spent the better part of the night in the Glittering Caves, recovering from an injury that would have killed anyone else."

Rubbish! He'd spent the better part of the night trying to make the Rohirrim open Helm's ruddy Gate so half of Saruman's army couldn't spear him on the causeway...

"Then foolishly rushed back into battle when you should have remained in safety to recover," remarked Legolas pointedly, sparing him a remonstrative glance.

Neville turned scarlet.

"Do not allow the Elf to irk you too much," said the dwarf magnanimously. "He is still upset that I won our bet at Helm's Deep and lays the blame for that at your feet. Or rather, at the ineffectiveness of his pretty crown. You were not the only one to faint like a maiden that night, you know."

Legolas leaned around Aragorn to scowl at the dwarf.

"Er, sorry about that. I should've taken the cliff walls into account," mumbled Neville apologetically, offering his (probably former) elven friend a sheepish grin.

"Think no more of it, Neville," said Legolas, relaxing beside the ranger once more. "I bear no grudge for the small misjudgement. I, too, should have realised the proximity of the mountains may have caused an echo that would challenge even the snuggest of ear coverings, yet I did not. Let us call it a lesson learned, shall we? And the night was not a complete loss. Despite my ... _incapacitation_ ... I still felled over forty Orcs."

Legolas smiled at him, then scowled again when Gimli (who was fingering his enchanted axe lovingly) added:

"Only one hundred or so less than my own total. Not bad, for a pointy-eared princeling. You may improve upon it yet, though, when next we meet the Enemy. Mayhap, with good fortune, you may even exceed a score of fifty!"

The dwarf wore a look of such undeniable smugness, that Neville had to laugh.

"Come, young Wizard. Let us tell the happenings of the battle that you missed while recovering from your wound," Éomer said, handing the chestnut mare to a rider and settling comfortably next to the boy. Aragorn threw him a wafer of lembas, which Neville munched on with relish.

For the next half hour, the ranger related the orcs attempt to blow up the Deeping Wall with explosive powder, and their subsequent chagrin when Molly 'enchanted' the metal orb and threw it back amidst their own filthy ranks, blowing up 'a goodly number' of their remaining forces, instead. He learned of her anger as she hexed, cursed and jinxed every snarling orc in sight (which had been a lot) after her charge had suffered at their hands, and the fear her 'coloured lights of wrath' had instilled in Saruman's archers when she jinxed them to fly back and hit their owners instead.

"Blimey, she didn't leave much for you lot, did she?" mumbled the teenager, gazing in the direction his Guardian had whizzed off.

"There were plenty of the Enemy for us all, lad," Gimli contradicted him. "Indeed, thanks to my magical axe, I slew almost two hundred Orcs. What do you say to that?"

The dwarf raised his eyebrows in question and Neville suppressed a snigger at the weapon he so lovingly caressed with his meaty fist.

"I'd say you're about two seconds from snogging your axe," he replied.

Éomer's barking laugh mingled with Legolas' tinkling one. "The word means 'to kiss', does it not?" queried the blond man in amusement. Neville nodded, then shifted his gaze when Gimli frowned at him.

"It may interest you to know that, after you swooned your way into senselessness, we met with a contingent of those moving trees you seemed so keen to meet back at Fangorn," Gimli informed him slyly.

Neville's jaw dropped. "What? The hopping Ents?" he gasped, dismayed to have missed them.

Gimli's expression softened. "Aye, lad. But do not fear; you did not miss much. Indeed, in all the years of my life, I cannot remember witnessing a more unnatural sight."

"Then you have not been witness to your own reflection at dawn's first light," Legolas remarked.

The dwarf growled, but Legolas ignored him to speak further.

"They were not 'hopping' Ents, young Neville, but herdsmen sent by Treebeard, I deem, to aid us in our fight at Helm's Deep."

"And mighty work they wrought there!" declared Théoden. "When the Orcish forces fled our charge, they ran straight at the trees. None have been heard of since!"

"What, you mean they got lost in the forest?" asked (a still peeved) Neville.

The king shrugged. "I know not. When we passed through it, there were none left to see. Perhaps they were crushed under the mighty limbs of the Ents, perhaps they were...devoured by them. None can tell, and the herdsmen did not elaborate as to their fate. Indeed, they did not speak at all."

"Then how do you know Treebeard sent them?"

"It could have been no other," mused Aragorn. "Lady Molly left the Hobbits in his care and they must have related the tale of their struggles after fleeing their captors. We have much to thank them for. Were it not for the arrival of the Ents, we may have struggled to rout the Orcs from the valley."

"And we have Hama to thank for finding Erkenbrand and his forces so swiftly, and for their timely return to the Deep. They swept down the western side of the valley, smiting those Orcs that fled the loving embrace of the tree-herders. Saruman's army is utterly crushed!" declared Éomer passionately, and a roar of approval swept the small company as every man cheered for the Lord of the Deeping-coomb.

Great. So he'd missed all the excitement. The end of the battle, the hopping trees, the much-admired Erkenbrand ...

Wait a minute. _Erkenbrand!_

"Hold on a minute: did this Erkenbrand bloke say anything more about our mysterious magical friends? You know, the ones that helped the Rohirrim the day before?"

Aragorn and Legolas exchanged an odd look before the ranger answered.

"Indeed he did. The Elven lord who so graciously aided our allies was none other than Glorfindel of Rivendell."

"Rivendell? You mean Imladris?"

Aragorn raised his brows in surprise. "You know its Elvish name?"

Neville shrugged. "Yeah. Varda showed us it on the maps back in Valinor. It was marked as Imladris, but she said that non-elvish people know it as Rivendell."

"Ah, how easily you speak of Varda and Valinor!" said Legolas wistfully. "As if they were but a stone's throw away and open to all who cared to visit. You are blessed indeed, Neville of Yorkshire, to have known such honour! Mortals are not intended for Valinor, as a rule, let alone in the Halls of Ilmarin itself, and none before have been there and come back to Middle Earth to speak of the honour!"

The elf's eyes misted suspiciously and he lost himself to a flight of fancy (that took him across the Sundering Sea, no doubt).

"Er, okay," mumbled Neville. "But, to be fair, Molly and I didn't 'come back' to Middle Earth. We stopped off in Valinor first, _then_ we came here."

Legolas ignored him, still lost in a daydream about the Undying Lands and the young wizard frowned in concern. If that's what the elf was like now, what would he be like if he heard those gulls Galadriel told him about in his dream?

He shifted uneasily on the litter, determined to keep an eye on his immortal friend.

"Anyway, Rivendell: this Glorfindel bloke - he's a friend of yours?"

Aragorn nodded. "Glorfindel dwells with my foster-father in Imladris. I have known him almost my entire life. He is an honourable Elf and a skilled warrior, yet -"

The ranger trailed off to study the ancient highway, then resumed his narrative.

"- yet, powerful in the arts of his kind as he is, even the mighty Glorfindel cannot make himself invisible to all eyes."

He was referring to the information provided by Céorl three days previously, but his pensive mood still puzzled Neville. Why was that a problem?

"But the scout from two days ago said he called his aunt a witch. He must've been under the influence of a spell cast by her."

"Ah, yes. The 'aunt'."

Legolas, finally roused from his daydream, turned his eyes to the ranger and, once again, they shared a look.

Which was beginning to annoy him, actually. Why couldn't they just come out and say whatever was on their minds?

"What? Why did you say 'aunt' in that funny voice?"

"Because, young Neville, Glorfindel _has_ no aunt. At least, none in Middle Earth."

Oh. Right. Well, that _was_ a little strange.

"And what is more," continued Aragorn, "Erkenbrand claims that the 'aunt' in question is Half-Elven. Again, this is impossible. There are no Half-Elven Witches in all the lands of Arda."

"But how does he know she's a half-elf?"

"He said she had more the look of a Child of Men, than an Elf, though Glorfindel addressed her often as 'Aunt'. When first I heard this, I thought she may have bewitched him for some reason unknown to us, until Erkenbrand allayed my fears. They share a familial bond that cannot be denied, or so he says. And therein lies the mystery, Neville Longbottom, for _I_ would deny the existence of such a bond. But, without having met the lady in question, I cannot refute Erkenbrand's report. As it is, the lady, whoever she may be, was of great aid to the Rohirrim and I would gladly meet with her to thank her for that, if nothing else."

Crikey, Aragorn was a bit of a suspicious git at times, wasn't he? Still, he had every right to be, Neville supposed. If one of his lifelong friends suddenly produced a heretofore unknown relative out of thin air, he'd probably be a bit suspicious, too.

The teenager attempted to distract him from his pensive mood by cheerily drawing his attention to the lady's (known) redeeming qualities.

"Well, whoever she is, at least she's on our side. And we'll probably run into her and Glorfindel if we're going to Gondor later. We _are_ still going to Gondor, aren't we? After we pick up Merry and Pippin, that is?"

The mention of their erstwhile companions pulled Aragorn from his contemplation and he answered with a smile.

"Indeed we are, Neville. Once we have 'picked up' the Hobbits."

Great! He was desperate to see Merry and Pippin again. Not to mention pay a visit to Boromir's city. Plus, he had a horn to hand over to his dead friend's little brother (what was his name again? Farmers-ear? Ruddy odd monikers these Middle-Earthlings had), something he was _not_ looking forward to. How was he going to tell Farmers-ear that Boromir was dead?

Lost in thought, he allowed his gaze to stray to the gloomy valley. It seemed to shy from the touch of the waning moon. Deep in its shadow rose a vast spire of smoke and vapour.

"What's that up there?" he asked of no one in particular, trying to discern the cause of the fire.

"'Tis the Wizard's Vale," supplied Éomer with a frown. "There is ever a fume above that valley in these days, but I have never seen aught like this before. These are steams rather than smokes. Saruman is brewing some devilry to greet us. Maybe he is boiling all the waters of Isen, and that is why the river runs dry."

He jerked a thumb to the right, indicating the shallow gorge.

"That's a river?"

"It was when last I saw it. And it shall be again!"

With that, the blond rose, bade them fair dreams and left to take his rest.

Neville allowed himself to ponder that particular dilemma as the company laid to their rest for the night. With a stomach full of the magic of elven bread and the crackle of a warm fire nearby, he, too, bade his friends 'goodnight' and dropped his weary head on his knapsack (which someone - probably Molly - had seen fit to make use of as a pillow). Soon, his eyes fluttered closed and he was asleep, his own snores lost amid the rumble of Gimli's deafening ones.

**XXX**

Neville was awoken by cries later in the night. He jerked into wakefulness to find riders running about in confusion. Legolas, Gimli and Molly where nowhere in sight, but Aragorn stood quietly a few metres away from his litter, one arm crossed over his chest, the other rested upon it with the hand stroking his bearded chin. Still rather groggy, Neville pulled himself to his feet and stumbled across the grass to stand next to him.

"What's happening?" he demanded, staring into the night. A blackness seemed to be creeping across the ground on both sides of the river, rolling towards them, then going northwards.

"I do not know," admitted the dark-haired man soflty. "The night is darker than I have ever seen, yet I feel it bears no malice towards us."

Excellent. Nothing worse than a malicious night, was there?

"Is Molly still out in that?"

"Nay. She returned an hour ago and patrols the perimeter on her wooden steed."

Which was just as well. It was starting to get misty and he'd hate to think she was out getting lost in it.

The Rohirrim began to take their seats on the grassy plain, resigned to waiting helplessly while the strange phenomena passed, though none of them dared to sleep. It was obvious that they were afraid, but neither Legolas nor Molly returned to make any reports of an impending attack on the small camp. Later in the night, a wind rose about them and the ground shuddered nearby, as if with the coldness of it. Neville shivered, glad for the use of his elven cloak. The fire had been extinguished hours ago, partly out of fear that it might draw unfriendly eyes. Personally, he was all for going out there to find out what in Merlin's name was going on, but Aragorn insisted he not exert himself too forcefully before he was ready for it.

"Lady Molly would not thank me for sending you out there while you continue to recover, and, as a healer in my own right, I would scarce permit it myself."

"But, Aragorn, I'm fine! I feel loads better. Come on - just five minutes?" he begged, desperate to nip across the darkness to investigate the rumbles. The noise was tantalisingly close, he could almost reach out and touch it! Whatever it was, it was near the empty river - five minutes was all he'd need...

The ranger held up a firm hand. "Nay. Have I not already said that the night bears us no malice? But that may change if you ride forth to challenge it. Leave it be. Tomorrow we shall know more of these strange happenings."

Frustrated at the restriction, the young wizard reluctantly took to his rest under Aragorn's watchful eye (glare), but he slept only fitfully for the remainder of the night.

**XXX**

In the morning when he awoke, his astonishment at the scene before him was as great as everyone else's.

The orcish corpses had completely disappeared.

Not only that but, most astonishing of all, the unmistakable roar of a river caught his attention.

The Isen flowed strong once more.

"Isn't it wonderful, dear?" exclaimed Molly, making him jump as she walked up beside him and threw her arms around him for a quick hug.

"Yeah. Not half. What happened?"

"Aragorn thinks that more of the Ents passed by in the night and tidied things up a bit."

Tidied things up a bit? He shook his head in amusement. Molly Weasley, housewife supreme. Only she would call the wonder of the Ents ridding the landscape of foulness and letting the river flow...

Neville froze mid-thought and whirled round to face her.

"Ents? Did you say _Ents_?"

She nodded, beamed, and walked off to collect her knapsack before they departed, leaving the youth to simmer in frustration.

_He'd missed the ruddy hopping trees again!_

Honestly, was there some sort of conspiracy against him? Were the Valar having a private joke at his expense?

This was probably Manwë's doing. Some sort of celestial revenge because he'd lusted after his wife!

Grumbling in annoyance, he traipsed back to his litter, shrank it and collected his few belongings, too annoyed to eat the lembas Gimli offered, or admire the new stone-covered hill that covered the corpses of the orcs (as Legolas claimed - some of them had done the Rohirrim a similar service back at Helm's Deep. This only served to remind Neville that he'd missed the ruddy Ents there too, and he scowled at the bemused elf before stalking away).

After the others had partaken of a quick breakfast, the company disbanded the camp and mounted their horses to travel up the highway. Molly flew up to him to check he was alright, still a little skittish at leaving him without her for more than five minutes, she said (he suppressed the desire to laugh - she had left him for several hours the night before).

Satisfied that he was well, his Guardian left before everyone else to make a quick sweep of the road further ahead before the riders set off, returning to inform Théoden that it was clear and no enemy forces waited in hiding to spring a surprise attack on them.

"Not that there's anywhere to hide," she added, sweeping the landscape with her sharp brown eyes. "Nothing in sight for miles but road and grass, until we get nearer the valley."

Great. No chance of meeting an Ent again then, eh?

The party set off, travelling northwest up the curve of the ancient highway for over an hour without any incident. Occasionally, they passed large boulders (and the matching dents they had made in the road), which he either Levitated away or they navigated around.

The work of the mysterious Glorfindel and his half-elven aunt no doubt. Bet Saruman hadn't seen _that_ coming.

Suddenly, Neville grinned. He was looking forward to seeing the (colourful) wizard again. He rubbed absently at his left arm, anxious to make the git squirm for inflicting it upon him (albeit by default).

Molly caught the gesture and was all over him in a flash.

"Is your arm sore, dear?" she asked, whipping her first-aid kit from her knapsack before he could so much as reply in the negative. She fished out a vial of green liquid and held it out hopefully, desperate to relieve his non-existent pain. Unwilling to deny her the chance of being useful, Neville nodded once and accepted the vial, unstoppering it and swallowing the contents whole.

"Merlin's beard!" he gasped, trying not to gag as he handed (a very satisfied-looking) Molly the empty flask. "That was horrible!"

"Medicine's not supposed to taste good, dear," she admonished. "It's just supposed to _help_."

"It would've helped a lot more if it didn't taste like an old sock," he grumbled unhappily.

"Oh, don't be such a fusspot! Did it do the trick or not?"

He flexed his arm (just to appease her) then nodded. "Yeah."

"Well, that's wonderful, isn't it?" The witch beamed, delighted to have been there for him in his moment of need.

Oh, yeah. _Wonderful. _Now she'd be pouring everything in her first-aid kit down his throat if he so much as twitched.

And if it cheered her up, he'd let her, too.

Early morning turned into mid-morning and the sun made its relentless way westward across the sky. Neville had to admit that it made a nice change to take a pleasant, almost carefree ride through the lands of Middle Earth now that the threat of Isengard's army had been dealt with (if not the wizard himself - yet). As the company rode up the (pock-marked, boulder strewn) highway, he wondered how Frodo and Sam were faring. Were they enjoying the warmth of the sun with as light a heart as the rest of them? Or were they too busy clambering over the rocks of the Emyn Muil, hiding from possible pursuers by day, journeying only at night? It was frustrating, not knowing what was happening to them, or if they were okay. Once again, he cursed his idiocy at not having put an Ever-Full spell on all the water-bottles before leaving Lothlórien. How trustworthy could the plumbing in Mordor be, after all?

Knowing it was pointless to let himself worry when he couldn't help them at that time, he shook the unhappy thoughts from his head and concentrated on the task of staying atop his (oddly cooperative) mare. The Misty Mountains were already visible in the distance, and Orthanc was supposed to lie at the foot of the Last Mountain, so it shouldn't be long before they arrived to 'accept' Saruman's surrender.

Something he was looking forward to.

Neville stole a speculative glance at Molly (but was careful not to twitch, in case he was forced into another potion-swallowing marathon). Saruman, for some reason, had wanted her dead - before he'd ever met her in Fangorn - and he, Neville Longbottom, had every intention of finding out why!

"Riders! To the left of the highway, all!" cried the voice of Théoden, and Neville automatically nudged Fælu at the command. The king's order had been a necessity for the past several miles, due to the condition of the oddly paved road they travelled upon. Fælu carried him away from it on to the grass when a sharp cry of disgust roused his interest.

"'Tis the foulest road I ever trod upon!" exclaimed Legolas, pointing elegantly at the highway. Neville's gaze followed his finger and he saw the elf indicating what appeared to be several small rocks lodged in the road itself. Rumbles of agreement swept the company and his face twisted in disgust as he noticed that the 'rock' was, in fact, a head.

An orc's head.

Bloody hell! How did _that_ get there?

He tugged Fælu's reins to the right and she carried him a little closer to the road to investigate.

Yuck! It _was_ a head. What happened there?

As they travelled up the Gap, they encountered many more of the macabre decorations. In some places full heads were evident, their faces twisted into expressions of horror; in others only the conical tops of helmets peeped through the warped paving.

But it was clear what lay beneath.

"D'you lot usually decorate your roads with your enemies' bodies?" he asked, casually cocking a brow at Aragorn.

"Nay. I have never seen its like before," the dark-haired man replied, grimacing as his gaze fell upon the death mask of an uruk. The creature's mouth was opened in a silent scream.

Thank goodness for that. He didn't much fancy having _his_ head stuck on a busy road somewhere between Mordor and Orthanc, if Sauron ever got a hold of him.

Not that he planned to let _that_ happen.

"You know, it looks almost as if they sank _into _the road," he said, running his eyes over the warped slabs between the heads. "As if the road melted, then the orcs got sucked in. You don't think Glorfindel's aunt could've been responsible?"

Aragorn thought about it. "Erkenbrand did name her the 'Green _Witch_'. And they did travel this way to assist the Rohirrim. It could be no other, I think."

"Yeah, well, Glorfindel's aunt or not, she's a bit of a scary old girl. At least, if you're an orc. Imagine traipsing down this road in the dark - you'd never know what hit you before you were sucked in. Sucked in... Yeah! It's like she turned the road into quicksand, or something."

He looked as the ranger for confirmation.

"I know of such quickening sands, as you call them. They are common in the Dead Marshes. But I never thought to see one outside of that place, and certainly not in the middle of a busy thoroughfare. The Green Witch must be powerful indeed, to have worked such magic."

"Yeah. Funny thing is, we've got a spell just like it where I come from."

"Is that so? And why should this cause you amusement?"

Neville grinned. "No, not 'funny, ha ha'; 'funny, _strange_'."

"Ah."

A look of understanding crossed the ranger's noble features and he grinned in turn.

"Anyway, it's funny because, when I fought Saruman, his magic seemed so ... foreign. So I just assumed that the magic of all wizards in your world was slightly different to ours. But apparently not."

He let that realisation sink in, debating it silently for a few moments. Molly whizzed by on her ancient Cleansweep (having assured herself that he wasn't going to drop dead from his horse) to chat with Théoden.

Did all magic share similarities, no matter which world it stemmed from? After all, he and Molly had wands, and Saruman had a staff, so it was clear that, in their two worlds at least, something was needed to channel the magic. And now this 'quicksand' in the road - another similarity from back home. Of course, there were disparities, too. Saruman, for instance, hadn't spoken when he was firing off his spells at Fangorn, something which - at the time - Neville had assumed to be the norm for wizards in Middle Earth. But perhaps that wasn't the case? Maybe he'd just been proficient in non-verbal magic? Which would mean that, as wizards, they had more in common than he'd first thought.

Interesting ...

"Professor Dumbledore would have loved it here," he mumbled.

"Professor Dumbledore? He was the chief instructor at your magical institution, was he not?"

Neville nodded absently and returned his gaze to the orc-ridden road. "Yeah, he was. Bit of a scholar, too. He'd would've enjoyed exploring the mysteries of Middle Earth and discovering the different types of magic. Pity Varda didn't send for him. He could've written a book about it. And probably have worked out the differences between our two magics."

Aragorn smiled gently. "You think highly of him."

It was a statement, not a question.

"Yes. Yes, I did. Still do, even though he's...dead."

Somehow, it still felt wrong to say that.

"I miss him. He was the greatest wizard we've had in centuries; it was a privilege to have lived in his lifetime. Not only was he the greatest Headmaster Hogwarts has ever known, but he was the driving force behind the resistance that finally crushed Voldemort. If it wasn't for him, we'd all be dead, or slaves under Voldemort's rule."

He pondered that for a second or two before adding more decisively: "No. I would _definitely_ be dead."

"Indeed? How do you come to such a conclusion, and with such assuredness?"

"'Cos I wouldn't have been able to step aside and let Voldemort have his way. Murder all my Muggle-born friends, just because he doesn't like them. Warp my society into a parody of civility. No, I'd have resisted with every last breath. He would've _had_ to have killed me to make me stop," he said softly.

Firmly.

And he knew it was true. He would rather die free, than live under the rule of tyranny. It was what got him through the war back in his own world.

It would be what got him through this one, too.

"Well said, Neville Longbottom."

The teenager drew his gaze from the ugliest road in Middle Earth to find that Éomer had drawn level with him. He flushed at having spoken so freely.

"Nay, be not embarrassed by your words. They were spoken with conviction and also with the courage I have come to expect from you. Lady Molly tells me that you were a leader in your war and if I doubted it before, I doubt it not now."

Molly had told him _what_? Is that what she had been doing back there, before she flew up to Théoden?

Oh, no! Was she feeding that line to the ruddy king as well?

Alarmed, the teenager shook his head furiously and attempted to set the record straight.

"I wasn't really a _leader_. Just one of _many_ students having a slight difference of opinion with their school management."

To put it lightly.

Éomer and Aragorn frowned in tandem.

"Then you did not defy the servants of your Dark Lord time and again?" asked the blond in confusion.

"Er, well ..."

"Or allow yourself to be subjected to a curse of terrible torture on many occasions, to save your friends from enduring it in your stead?"

"Actually, I wasn't the only one ..."

"Or see those to safety that were being hunted for death - _children_, no less _- _by the very people who should have protected them against such evils? And at great risk to your own life?"

"Well, strictly speaking, we were _all_ at risk ..."

"And did you not stand in glorious defiance of the _Dark Lord_ _himself_? Writhe in pain while he set your very face aflame for your insolence? Strike down his last link to an unnatural immortality, that Harry, son of Potter, could end his evil reign once and for all?"

Neville was beyond crimson. He was puce. Apart from his flame-and-Cruciatus-scarred cheek, of course; a fact not lost upon his interrogators. Éomer and Aragorn smirked at his discomfort.

"As I thought, young Wizard. A leader you are. 'Tis a great responsibility for any to bear; having the rule of others, seeing to their care and safety, ensuring that their good is placed ever above your own. Though I have met many leaders who fulfil these duties admirably, I have never yet met one who fulfilled them at such a young age. Nay, be not offended. I know that from whence you hail, you are now a Man of your people, but even there, leadership found you before Manhood ever did and you bore it better than most. It is an honour to ride with you, to fight with you, and to call you friend."

Neville, feeling like a bit of a fraud, swallowed thickly, unused to such open admiration and deep sincerity. Personally, he thought they were overreacting a little bit. Yes, he'd done his bit in the war - just like everybody _else_ had. He hadn't done anything more than that, and, though there had been some close shaves and a good bit of drama, it wasn't nearly as grand as Éomer made it sound. Fair enough, war had made him stand up and be counted. He was more confident and proficient with his magic; but he was still _Neville_. Still awkward, still that little bit clumsy, and still vastly grateful just to have survived the war in the first place. _All_ his friends were heroes, dead and living. They deserved their praise just as much as he did.

But they weren't here and he was. So he'd have to accept it graciously on behalf of _all_ of them. Still, to know that people as noble and brave - and so ruddy _superior_ to him in every way - as these future kings of men thought so highly of him...

His eyes misted slightly and he froze.

Oh, crikey. Was that a tear? Merlin's beard, if he started bubbling like a toddler in front of the new Prince of Rohan and the Sort-Of-Prince-Of-The-Whole-Ruddy-World, he'd die of shame!

What he needed was a diversion. A Neville Longbottom-style diversion.

"Ouch!" he yelled theatrically, making his companions jump in alarm. He smacked a hand to the offending eye and grimaced (also theatrically). "Cripes, think I've got something in my eye. Probably an orc tooth, knowing my luck. Bet the wind blew it over from the road."

Aragorn frowned. "I do not believe the gust was nearly powerful enough to have dislodged a tooth from the mouth of an Orc, nor clever enough to have blown it in the exact direction of your eye, Neville."

Oh, great. Trust the ranger to spoil it.

Desperate to leave before he dissolved into a gibbering wreck, the teenager nudged his chestnut mare past Aragorn and up the grassy plain, leaving the two men staring after him in blank confusion.

"Might've been a hair, then. They're easily dislodged. And take a look at those ugly gits - d'you think they've ever washed their heads? I don't. Bet the hair was filthy. Probably infested with lice, or something. I don't really want a colony of lice setting up home in my eyeball, so if you don't mind, I'll just nip up and let Molly have a look at it."

"You need not go so far for aid. I learned the art of healing from the Lord of Imladris himself. Allow me to assist you," called the ranger as the teenager barrelled up the line of riders.

"Er, maybe next time. And anyway, Molly can just Summon them out with her wand. Thanks!"

And so he left them to stare after his fleeing back, and to mumble about the strange ways of wizards everywhere - regardless of which world they hailed from.

**XXX**

Although the Ents had cleared most of the corpses by the river, the company occasionally came upon the odd few lying face down in blackened craters, or in the grasses, several dozen yards away on the opposite side of the road to the now swiftly flowing waters.

Sometimes more.

Many of them were limbless, headless or charred to a crisp.

Hmm. It must have been _quite_ the party, as Gran would say.

And, with the added benefit of a strong sun, they were decaying beautifully.

Théoden called a halt every time they passed the fallen enemies and Neville or Molly (and sometimes both together, if the pile was significant) would Levitate them and pile them up together in a single crater, along with any others the Rohirrim had gathered from the plains, before burying them in it forever. It was slow, but necessary, work.

Not to mention absolutely stinking!

For the umpteenth time, a halt was called and he and Molly trained their wands on a clump of bodies fouling the landscape. They collected almost two dozen burned and broken corpses from it and deposited them in a pile, before covering them with earth. The stench of so many hung heavy in the air, making him want to gag.

Ugh! It was all he could do not to lean over Fælu's flank and empty his stomach. He was desperate to cast a Bubble-head charm but refrained because, unfortunately for him, he was in the company of the manliest men he'd ever met, and _they_ all bore it like the testosterone-fuelled warriors that they were. Much to his disgust, Gimli was actually inhaling deeply through his nose as if he was enjoying every second of it.

"You're having a laugh, right?" he asked the dwarf in disbelief.

"Nay, lad. I see no humour in death."

"Then why are you taking great lungfuls of air as if you've almost drowned?"

"Ah. That is because there is no smell in all of Arda to compare with decaying corpse of an enemy. A decaying Orcish enemy, that is."

Neville and Legolas swapped a knowing glance and rolled their eyes in unison. Clearly, the dwarf was barking ruddy mad.

"I disagree, friend Gimli," said the fair elven prince. "I much prefer the pure, sweet fragrance of a rain-dampened forest."

"Trust an Elf to bring trees into the conversation!" retorted his bushy companion. "No doubt you will soon break into song about them, too. Gah! Neville! Sing for us a song of your home instead - one without trees, if you please. Even the torture of your mangled voice raised in song is better than one about the fairness of the oak, the beech, or the ash."

Torn between affront at the dwarf's remark of his singing prowess, amusement at the offence registering on Legolas' face, and growing horror at the speculative looks he was getting from his other companions, the teenager cringed.

"Er, no. You sing one."

Gimli narrowed his eyes. "You would deny me this small favour?"

"No. But, as you so eloquently put it, my 'mangled voice raised in song' will be a 'torture' for everyone."

"It will also be a distraction from what they consider the unpleasantness of the smell," the dwarf pointed out. "And, do not forget, they have never before heard a song from your lands. The Rohirrim are great lovers of song, are they not?"

Gimli made the appeal to Théoden, who nodded. "That we are, Master Dwarf. Come, Wizard of Awes. Sing for the King of the Horse-lords. We shall forgive the quality of your voice, if it gives us a better idea of your home lands."

Oh, great. Just great. A royal command. Brilliant. And if he said 'No, sod off," Théoden would probably have him beheaded.

Excellent!

Molly beamed in encouragement. "Go on, dear. Give us a song while we travel. How about a nice Celestina Warbeck tune, hmm? I know _all_ her songs. Have all eight of her albums, as a matter of fact. Why don't we do a duet, eh? Maybe, _A Cauldron Full of Hot Strong Love_?"

"NO!" Neville exclaimed in horror, trying not to imagine the reaction _that_ particular tune would elicit from the grand company of brave (but strangely proper) warriors. Already a few of them eyed the witch as she swayed from side to side on her broom (eyes closed, humming dreamily and no doubt thinking of her astonishingly fertile husband). At his shout, all eyes swivelled back to him and Molly opened hers (looking rather crestfallen).

"I mean, yeah. Okay. I'll sing something."

If only to stop Molly from breaking several dozen rules of staid Middle Earth propriety with her musical masterpieces. Arda was not ready for Celestina Warbeck.

"But not while everyone's sitting there watching me."

"The lad is shy," announced Gimli to a strapping blond Rohirrim with a deep scar across his left cheek. The rider grinned in amusement and Neville glared at them both.

Gits!

"Yeah, that's right. I'm shy. So, let's all push off and I'll 'distract' you with a tune, okay?"

Satisfied with the compromise, Théoden grinned broadly and, with Aragorn and Éomer at each side, led the company back up the plains to the ever-nearing lair of Saruman. Neville nudged Fælu behind them, pausing only long enough to scowl at Gimli, and soon he was being escorted up the Gap by his Guardian.

Legolas drew up beside him and both elf and dwarf watched him expectantly.

"I'm thinking! I can't just pull one out of a hat, you know. It has to be -"

Appropriate. In other words, Warbeck-free.

"- to be interesting."

"I am certain that whatever you sing of will be of interest, if lacking in melody, young Neville," offered Legolas with a twinkle. Gimli roared with laughter.

Neville scowled at the elf, too, then racked his brains for an 'interesting' tune.

"Al lright then," he informed them a minute later, having selected one of Seamus Finnigan's own compositions. "Got one. Here goes."

Gimli and Legolas beamed in anticipation. Neville wet his lips nervously, opened his mouth, and hoped for the best.

"_There once was a wizard who got lost in a blizzard_

_And bemoaned his lack of a coat_

_He tripped on his tassel by the walls of a castle_

_And fell head first into its moat ..."_

Before he could launch into a second verse, Gimli interrupted him.

"Why did he trip upon his tassel?"

Bemused, Neville shrugged. "Dunno. Must've got in his way."

The answer did not satisfy the dwarf. "In his way from where, lad?"

Who cared? Honestly?

He shrugged again. "Dunno. Maybe he had one on his shoe..."

Which would make the foolish wizard a bit of a ponce, actually. Tassels on shoes were so...Gilderoy Lockhart.

"But what was he doing outside in a blizzard? And how could he be lost, if he was by the walls of a castle?"

"You know, Gimli, sometimes you remind me of Pippin. He asks a lot of pointless questions, too."

Legolas actually snorted with laughter (something Neville had never heard the elegant elf do before). Gimli, however, glared at him.

"Very well, Wizard. I shall let you sing the next verse of your _interesting _song."

Legolas snorted again, joined by Aragorn from further up the line.

"Thanks, Gimli. That's really big of you," drawled the teenager sarcastically (Molly swiped him on the back of the head for his cheek).

"Alright. Second verse:

_There once was an old witch who was a bit of a bi..."_

"What happened to the Wizard?"

Neville broke off again to look at the perplexed dwarf.

"He fell into the moat, remember?"

"But did he not climb back out?"

"Couldn't have or he'd be in the second verse, wouldn't he?"

"_Why_ did he not climb back out?"

The teenager sighed. "Because he fell _head first_ into the moat. Probably struck it on a rock and died, or something."

Gimli huffed in annoyance. "'Tis not much of a song about a Wizard, if he died in the first verse."

"You didn't actually ask me to sing you a song about a wizard; you just asked me to sing a song, and this is it. Would you prefer if I stopped?"

_Please say yes ..._

"Nay. On you go, lad. Sing more."

Brilliant.

He was about to relaunch into the verse about the witch, when he remembered the end of the first line.

Crikey! And he'd very nearly let that slip, too! Maybe it was just as well Gimli had interrupted him - he'd have to modify it.

Using all the artistic licence he possessed (none), and hoping Seamus would forgive him, he made the mental correction and started again.

"_There once was an old witch who was a bit of a she-dog_

_And she was much-loathed in her town_

_She spread lie and rumour like a fast-growing tumour_

'_Til she fell ill and died on her own."_

"There is a lot of falling about and dying in this song," grumbled Gimli. "And the Witch in question does not sound half so honourable as the Lady Molly."

"Why, thank you, Gimli, dear!" trilled Molly, flattered beyond belief.

Neville clenched his jaw and looked ahead, desperately wishing that Isengard would suddenly pop into existence before him.

"The next verse is a bit better," he growled.

"Then sing it, lad," ordered the dwarf gruffly. "And let us hope it cheers us up a bit more than its predecessors."

Mastering the impulse to lean over and shove him off Arod, he nodded once at Gimli and continued.

"_There once was a house-elf who was in love with himself_

_And he gazed in his mirror all day ..."_

Gimli's booming laughter filled the air (completely drowning out Legolas' offended huff). Neville ignored him.

"_His mistress' vexation with his self-fascination_

_Made her throw Wonky's mirror away."_

By the time Neville was finished, Gimli's laughter had spread to every rider in the company (except for Legolas, who looked affronted at the slur on his name-cousin).

"Ah, lad! That was the best verse, yet. It could have been written about someone I know, I tell you!"

"You take your life in your hands, if you are referring to me, son of Glóin," hissed the elf.

"Er, no, Legolas. I was referring to ... er ..."

"Yes?" demanded his irate friend impatiently. "I am waiting."

Gimli flushed (and the Rohirrim laughed harder). "To that pretty elf in Lothlórien. The one with the scowling brothers."

He could only mean Haldir, and Neville said so.

"Aye, lad. Haldir. That is the very one!" exclaimed the dwarf, almost sagging in relief. "I see he struck you as the vain sort, also."

Er, no. Haldir just _struck_ him. Usually with a heavy glare. Or a cutting remark.

Legolas (still miffed about the last verse) turned his golden head towards the teenager. "I do not see the point to your song. It tells no tale of beauty or valour. Indeed, it relates only tales of foolishness, vindictiveness and vanity. Do you not know something more pleasing? Perhaps a tale of love? I would be more inclined to listen to that with pleasure, at least."

What a stroppy git.

Molly didn't share his feelings about Legolas. The redhead jumped at the opening before Neville had a chance to whip out a witty retort.

"Ooh, you want a love song, dear? Well, I know _hundreds_ of them! Would you like to hear one?"

The smile that crossed the elf's face would have stunned Professor McGonagall herself into a lovesick stupor. Molly was absolutely _beaming_ with delight. Her gaze swept the assembled company, catching the eye of brawny riders everywhere. Many nodded back at her eagerly (obviously assuming she was going to start warbling some syrupy Aragorn-esque number - what a crowd of poncy sods). It was all the encouragement the witch needed.

Well, weren't _they_ in for a surprise. Neville smirked, briefly debating whether or not to step in and save the company's blushes.

Then again, why spoil Molly's fun? She was glowing (almost brighter than Legolas) with pleasure at the thought of exhibiting her vast wealth of lyrical delights, and he didn't want to ruin it for her. She had more than earned the right to it, after burying a son (and almost losing _him_, too).

Plus, it would be a right good laugh to see everyone's expressions when she let rip...

Neville relaxed in his saddle, having absolutely no further intention of stopping Middle Earth getting its first taste of the mighty Celestina Warbeck.

Whether Middle Earth was ready for it or not.

Putting a hand to her mouth, Molly coughed into it delicately and set the beast loose.

"_You put the Fire in whisky ..."_

She pointed coyly at Scarface of Rohan (not Yorkshire - thank Merlin).

"_Baby, you're burning hot ..."_

Molly raised a finger to her lips, wet it, and gave a loud 'tssss'.

"_I'd like to fly into your arms ..."_

Arms opened. Then closed.

"_And show you what I've got!"_

She wiggled her shoulders at Éomer and waggled her brows suggestively (the blond nearly collapsed).

And so it continued. For the next ninety minutes, the Weasley mother belted out musical madness to all and sundry, from popular golden oldies such as _You Charmed the Heart Right Out of Me, _to the more obscure (and, frankly bizarre) numbers like _You make Me Scream Like a Banshee! _(which, luckily, was a tale of spurned love, as opposed to a scorching tribute to a sweetheart's virility). Finally, Molly ran out of steam, begging leave of the (completely) shell-shocked King of Rohan to catch her breath. Théoden nodded (dazedly), offering a gallant 'Er, thank you,' and she whizzed happily off to relieve the guard at the rear of the company, leaving over twenty stunned warriors and one sniggering teenager in her wake.

**XXX**

The ancient highway turned ever north and the Misty mountains rose on their left as the riders passed into the Wizard's Vale. It was a sheltered valley, open only to the south. Most of it was a wilderness of weeds and thorns. Brambles trailed upon the ground, or clambered over bush and bank. Neville and his friends had left the last of the dead orcs far behind them and none now lay scattered on the highway (or _in_ the highway).

There was evidence of violence in the valley, though. His eyes fell often on the axe-hewn stumps of what must've been ancient trees, given their sheer circumference. The sorry sight made the young herbologist sigh in frustration.

What a git Saruman was. No wonder the Ents had helped to crush his forces at Helm's Deep: he had murdered their relatives!

Actually, if Ents had been at Helm's Deep, and Ents had passed them the night before, too (not that he had noticed them - on either occasion), then maybe they had paid the multi-coloured maniac a visit too?

In fact, maybe they were still here?

Excited at the possibility, he kept an eye peeled for a fifty foot tall (possibly) hopping tree. But he never saw one. They rode through the valley for some miles without meeting any other living being, much to his chagrin.

What a disappointment. If they had been here, then they had already left.

Typical. Manwë was probably wetting himself with laughter.

Git.

Eventually, the highway became a wide street, paved with great, flat stones which had been laid (orc-head-free) with obvious skill. There was not even a blade of grass to been seen now; instead, deep gutters filled with trickling water ran down either side of the street.

"Cheery sort of a place, isn't it?" he asked, curling his lip in distaste at his surroundings.

"Once it was, no doubt," replied Aragorn. "But that was long before you were born. Or before I was, I suspect. Saruman's plotting has been long in the making."

"Not that it did him any good, in the end," Molly remarked. "What a miserable spot for a house though, don't you think? Cold winds blowing down the valley, no moon at night, not a garden in sight! It's not a very nice place to raise a family."

"I doubt that Saruman was keen to raise any family other than his unnatural servants, my Lady, and for that, this place was ideally wrought. Yet once it was a place of beauty. A guardian watchtower on the West, it was."

"Yeah, well it's just a blight on the landscape now, isn't it?" muttered the teenager, raising his eyes to look at the tall pillar that now loomed up before them. It was a huge, black monstrosity, and set upon it was a great stone, carved and painted in the likeness of a long white hand.

"That's his mark, isn't it?"

Aragorn nodded solemnly.

Not that he needed the confirmation. He remembered it from the helmets that had lain strewn around Boromir's dying body.

Neville clenched his teeth in anger. Saruman's time was up. He was going to make him answer for killing his moody Gondorian friend. For kidnapping Molly and the hobbits.

For being an utter git.

Up ahead, a ring of dark stone rose several feet high and formed a great circle, curving its way around the gloomy dark tower. As Théoden's company drew nearer, they saw that there was only one way in. Massive iron doors were flung open, allowing what light there was to filter through and give them sight of a tunnel leading into the main courtyard beyond.

But, before any of the riders could pass through the gates, someone came riding _out_ of the tunnel to greet them. Legolas gasped in shock and Neville glanced at his elven friend in concern. But the fair immortal had pulled his horse to a halt and sat stiffly upon it (with a very disgruntled Gimli grumbling behind him).

"Legolas, what ails you? Is it Saruman? Has he come to pay us welcome?" demanded Aragorn urgently, ready to draw his weapon and brandish it in warning.

"Nay! Aragorn! Aragorn, the White Wizard approaches!"

The White Wizard? Well, that was Saruman, wasn't it? Why would Legolas say it wasn't?

Neville was torn between anxiety for the elf, and a sudden need to spear the approaching 'White' Wizard with the Sword of Gryffindor. His hand travelled to the weapon's hilt, resting upon his hip, and he readied himself to draw it at the first provocation of their 'host'.

Then, to his utter confusion, the ranger suddenly cried out and raced forward on Hasufel with a shout of joy.

He watched the future king barrel across the paved road, galloping ever closer to the white figure on the tall, silver horse, then gaped as he pulled his mount to a stop beside him. And his jaw dropped when the ranger threw his arms around the enemy and pulled him into a big, blokey man-hug.

But it was nothing compared to the thrill of shock that raced through his body when Aragorn yelled one, simple word that changed everything.

_"Gandalf!"_

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Author's Note_: Some dialogue/descriptions taken from The Lord of the Rings, The Two Towers; Book Three, Chapter 8.

Again, apologies for the delay, but my muse deserted me for this chapter and I had to try and trick it into reappearing by concentrating on other projects (which may sound bizarre, but it works for me). Fortunately, it returned at the weekend, so here you go. I hope you enjoyed.

Kara's Aunty :)


	25. Great Balls of Fire!

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. and Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

**Credit: **HarryPotterWiki and www dot Tuckborough dot net,

**Please review - it really _is_ my only reward.**

**Not Quite A Maia**

**Chapter 25**

* * *

_Isengard _

_Third Age 5th__ March 3019_

"_Gandalf!"_

Aragorn's cry was one of jubilation as he grabbed the ancient wizard in a bear hug, half pulling him off his magnificent horse in his excitement.

Joyous laughter rumbled deep in Gandalf's chest and he gave in to it, allowing the merry sound to echo through the tunnel that led to Saruman's abode.

"It warms my heart to see you also, Dúnadan," he chuckled as his friend pulled back and looked at him with amazement.

"How is it that you live?" demanded the ranger.

"Hmm. Not quite the words of welcome I had expected," grumbled the wizard good-naturedly, straightening his ranger-rumpled robes. "Would you have preferred me to remain dead?"

The younger man grinned. "I may send you back to the afterlife myself if you do not desist with your teasing! You must know how much the sight of you gladdens my weary heart!"

Gandalf huffed. "Not one minute ago you embraced me with joy, and now you threaten to slay me! I should have stayed in the Void! Still, I shall answer your question, but it shall be an abridged version, for the moment, for I have told this tale twice already and the repetition of it begins to vex me. Suffice to say that I fought and destroyed Morgoth's bane, then I too succumbed to the Gift of Men. But the Valar were not done with me, it seems, and they called for me in the darkness of afterlife until I answered. Which, as you can see, I did. Eventually."

His companion frowned. "What mean you - _eventually_? Were you delayed? Where? How? By what?"

"Confound it all, Aragorn! Have you grown part-Took since last we met?"

A wide grin split Aragorn's face. "No more than Gimli, my friend," he replied, making the wizard frown slightly in confusion. "I merely wonder at what you found beyond the bonds of life that captured your interest long enough to delay your return, and thus make the Valar believe you so lost that they had to send to another world for a replacement to fight in your stead."

"Ah, yes. My replacement …"

The reborn Maia allowed his gaze to wander to Aragorn's company of desperately curious companions. Théoden held the Rohirrim at a respectful distance whilst the wizard and ranger talked, but awe was in all their faces nonetheless; Legolas' face shone with joy as he watched his returned Fellowship member; Gimli was barking in the elf's ear, trying to get him to urge the 'blasted horse' forward so they could partake in the happy reunion, and Gandalf had to suppress a laugh when the dwarf gave up trying to convince his friend and began to dismount (only to be grabbed by the scruff of the neck and yanked back onto the horse with a few impatient words from Legolas). His eyes slipped farther right and he saw a red-haired woman of middling years in a heavy brown coat sitting astride a…

His eyebrows rose in disbelief.

"Tell me, Aragorn; is the Lady Molly riding an actual _broomstick_?" he asked in astonishment.

Aragorn was equally astonished, but it had little to do with Weasley mother's Cleansweep.

"You know of the Lady Molly?"

"Certainly. The Valar told me of both her and young Neville. As did Galadriel, when I was recovering in her lands."

"You have been to Lothlórien?"

Gandalf nodded. "Indeed. It was to there that Landroval the Eagle carried me from Celebdil, and there that I recovered from my labours. But you have not answered my question."

The ranger, looking slightly abashed, replied. "'Tis indeed a broom. An enchanted one which carries her through the skies much as your Eagle friend carried you from the mountain-top. It proved most useful during our recent battle at Helm's Deep."

Ah. Helm's Deep.

"Then it was as I suspected: Saruman's army attacked the stronghold after crossing the Fords" muttered the old wizard. "Yet he would not have expected to meet with such resistance - nor would he have expected Théoden to have rallied enough from his infirmity to provide such. How is this come to pass? The King of the Horse-lords seems a good deal more vibrant since last I saw him."

"Lady Molly is a healer of sorts, and used a remedy from her world to cure him."

Gandalf smiled. "It seems the Valar chose wisely when they selected her to be the boy's Guardian."

"Indeed they did!" laughed the ranger. "She is fiercely protective of him - and of us all. She will not rest until we have eaten well after a hard day's travel. She patrolled our camp last night enchanting extra blankets from thin air to keep everyone warm - even the horses. And it is most unwise to cross her, as several dozen - nay, several _hundred_ Orcs would tell you, if they were not already dead by her hand. Lady Molly in battle is a glorious thing to see, Gandalf!"

"Then I shall endeavour not to vex her in any way," replied the Maia with a smile. His eyes slipped farther right until they finally settled upon a youth perched rather uncomfortably on a chestnut horse. The brown-haired boy was shifting restlessly, flicking nervous glances between the older wizard and his Guardian, and he turned scarlet when Gandalf eventually caught his gaze and held it steadily.

"And that, I suppose, is young Neville Longbottom, destroyer of Mellryn and Nazgûl alike?"

Aragorn twisted his head to stare at the flushing boy and offer him a reassuring smile. It seemed to soothe Neville, for the youth relaxed a little on his horse.

"He is."

"And tell me, Aragorn, what do you make of him? What is he like?"

To Gandalf's surprise, the ranger broke into hearty chuckles and was unable to answer for several seconds. When Aragorn had stilled his amusement, he replied, still grinning.

"He is a most unusual young man. Somehow … somehow he reminds me of Master Gamgee, but with a staff of power. And he has also a little of the Tookish propensity for calamity into the bargain."

The White Wizard's eyebrows climbed up his forehead. "Is that so? A Hobbit Wizard? That is an alarming thought. Yet, if you liken him to Samwise, I know at least that he is brave, loyal and not easily corrupted. Nay, I do Master Gamgee a disservice; he is not at _all_ corruptible. Mayhap these qualities will be enough to make up for the unfortunate streak of Tookishness in the young Wizard."

Anyone not acquainted with Gandalf may have thought his latter words harsh, but Aragorn knew him well and recognised the twinkle of humour in his eyes as he studied the boy.

"Indeed they shall," affirmed Aragorn warmly. "Neville is a youth of remarkable strength and conviction. What he lacks in tact he more than makes up for with courage and magical prowess. The People of the West have found a powerful ally in him, as well as a great friend."

"Is that so? Alas for this poor, miserable excuse for a Maia! I see that I shall have my work cut out for me if I am to live up to his reputation," grumbled Gandalf good-naturedly.

"That you shall, truant Wizard. But do not despair, I am glad to see despite your shortcomings," said Aragorn with a smirk.

"Shortcomings indeed! I can still turn you into a toad, you know! Ask Master Gamgee, if you doubt me. But let us briefly discuss other matters before our friends yonder abandon all restraint and launch themselves upon me with all the glee of a hungry Hobbit," said Gandalf, turning serious. He favoured the younger man with a knowing glance. "I see that Frodo is not among your companions, though I cannot say I am surprised. The Ring has passed beyond my help, or the help of any of the Company that set out from Rivendell."

Aragorn looked startled for a second, then opened his mouth to ask how he knew this, but Gandalf held up a hand. "I have seen this myself … among other things. I know that Frodo journeys alone to that most terrible of places in order to complete the task he was chosen for."

"Not alone," said Aragorn. "We believe that Sam went with him."

"Did he?" asked Gandalf, and a broad smile swept his face. "Did he indeed? It is news to me, yet it does not surprise me. Good! Very Good! You lighten my heart. But what of Merry and Pippin?"

Aragorn's face fell slightly. "Merry and Pippin were captured by Saruman's Uruk-hai at Parth Galen, as was the Lady Molly. Boromir … Boromir fell that day trying to protect them."

The news saddened his companion. "I am grieved to hear it. As will his father be, if he is yet unaware of the news."

"I do not see how he could know, for we have been much occupied with hunt and battle both to have sent word of it to him. But Denethor is no fool: his son has been absent for many months and no doubt he at least suspects the cause."

"No doubt," muttered Gandalf darkly. "And no doubt he regrets also his choice of ambassador to Imladris. Alas for Faramir! The death of his beloved brother will be a grievous enough blow to him without that! But you said that Neville's Guardian was captured also, yet I see her here before me."

"That is so. We followed their trail across Rohan until we came to Fangorn. There we found her, or perhaps I should say that _she _found _us_. She had escaped the Uruk-hai's grasp with the Hobbits, then left them in the care of Treebeard of the Ents while she fought the traitor Wizard."

Gandalf huffed in slight annoyance. It seemed that every witch in Arda (all two of them) was getting the opportunity to take a swipe at the fallen Maia. At this rate, there would be nothing left of Saruman for him to deal with.

Still, one mustn't grumble. At least they _were_ aiming for Saruman (as opposed to _him_). Cheered by the thought, Gandalf returned his attention to Aragorn.

"Treebeard is the guardian of Fangorn; he is the oldest of the Ents, the oldest living thing that still walks beneath the Sun upon this Middle-earth. Merry and Pippin have been fortunate in Lady Molly's choice of protectors for them. I could not have chosen better for them myself," he said, mentally congratulating the Weasley witch for her foresight. "With his home in such proximity to Isengard, Treebeard could not have failed but to grow uneasy at the blanket of evil spreading before his forest. The Hobbits have no doubt told him of their experiences, and given him further intelligence from beyond his borders. His wrath is ever slow to wake, but deadly when evoked. And it _has_ been evoked. This I know already. When we travel through this dark tunnel into the courtyard beyond, I suspect that nothing shall be as it once was, when last I was here."

"You have not yet been inside?" asked Aragorn, lifting his eyebrows in surprise.

The wizard shook his head. "Nay, not yet. Isengard was not my original destination. I had intended to pass it by with as much stealth and speed as my powers and Shadowfax's hooves could provide. However, only yester-eve, I foresaw the march of the Ents along the Isen and knew that Orthanc would fall. I knew not how this would come to pass, but I suspected that my old Fellowship - or some of them at least - must have a hand in it somehow. So I changed my course and came here instead to investigate the happenings, and hoping to meet you all."

And also hoping to see that the young wizard was yet in their company. It had been a gamble on his part, to desist his pursuit of Augusta Longbottom in the hope of chancing upon her grandson and sending _him_ on a different course instead, but the Valar had been smiling upon him and his gamble had paid off.

"Then you are not long arrived before us?"

"Mere minutes ago. I came from the West, as you came from the East, and I heard the ring of hooves in the valley before me. So, now we all may enter the lair of Saruman together and make him account for his treachery."

And account for it he would. Gandalf would see to that personally (depending on how much of Saruman there _was _left to contend with, after the wrath of two angry witches had been carved into his body).

"And I shall look forward to it!" declared the ranger with a grim smile. "But let us first see you reunited with friends old and new. If you do not allow them to greet you soon, Gimli may start to hack at both Legolas and Arod in his endeavours to reach you!"

They laughed as the dwarf's gruff complaints rolled towards their ears, and Gandalf finally nudged Shadowfax towards the waiting company and their happy reunion.

**XXX**

To say that Neville was surprised to hear Aragorn call out Gandalf's name would be an understatement.

He was _staggered_.

He watched with the others as Aragorn embraced, then spoke quietly with the newcomer. It was obvious the ranger was questioning the wizard to within an inch of his (second) life. A few feet away from the suddenly nervous teenager, Gimli was complaining about not being able to rush to greet their risen friend as quickly as 'the unwashed ranger' had, but Legolas stilled him in a surprisingly firm voice, stating that the two would join them when they were ready.

"Do not forget, friend Gimli, that we had not thought to ever greet Mithrandir again. But the Valar, in their beneficence, have granted us this gift unlooked for. It gladdens my heart enough just to see our friend hale and vibrant once more; I may certainly wait another few minutes for the added joy of greeting him in person. Cannot you also, impatient one?"

Legolas may have been the Prince of Patience, but the dwarf clearly was not. Disgusted by his friend's pretty prattling, the bushy being tried to (gracelessly) slither off Arod's back and make a dash to Gandalf on foot; but his attempt proved to be in vain when his elven friend twisted around and hauled him back up by the scruff of his elvish cloak. Normally, this would have elicited a chuckle from Neville, but his eyes quickly moved back to the tall figure in white and remained there, transfixed by the proud bearing and flowing beard and hair of Gandalf the Used-To-Be-Grey-But-Have-Recently-Discovered-Laundry-Powder-And-Am-Now-Completely-White. All of a sudden, the older wizard tore his gaze from Aragorn and settled it on him. The teenager flushed at being caught staring.

"Well, he looks very healthy for someone who's supposed to be dead," said Molly matter-of-factly. "Don't you think so, dear?"

"Er, yes. S'pose he does," replied Neville quietly.

Molly caught his tone and her forehead crinkled. "Are you all right, dear? You sound a little strange."

He spared her a reassuring smile. "No, I'm fine. Just surprised to see him."

To say the least. Neville didn't hear the witch's reply, he just let her babble happily away as he stared at the other wizard in confusion.

Gandalf was back. He _should_ be happy. And he _was_, for his friends' sake. They clearly loved him. But Neville couldn't help but feel a little … redundant.

What did Gandalf's return mean for _him_? Now that Middle Earth's greatest wizard was back to help the West in their fight against Sauron, was there really any need for _him_ any more? Would Aragorn come over to him in a few minutes and say something like, 'Well, it's been fun, Nev, but your services are no longer required. Cheerio!'?

Okay, perhaps 'cheerio' wasn't in Aragorn's impressively elegant vocabulary. And the ranger might also be far to proper to use contractions in his speech. Still, did Neville really _want_ to go after all that he'd been through?

He pondered the thought carefully, then decided he didn't. Not yet. Not before he knew for certain that all his friends would be able to live their lives in peace, free of Sauron's evil forever.

And if Gandalf _told_ him to leave?

Well, he wouldn't. He'd just have to find some way to convince the wizard that he should stay. Maybe Gandalf wouldn't object to an apprentice? Powerful or not, the older wizard would have his hands full if he had any hope of winning the war, and he, Neville, wasn't completely useless. Perhaps he should formally offer his services before Gandalf had the chance to send him packing?

It seemed as good a plan as any, so when Aragorn and the older wizard finally decided to join the rest of the waiting company, he sat straight on his mount and plastered a hopeful smile on his face, ready to meet the legendary Maia.

"Gandalf!" cried Gimli as the wizard finally drew up to them. "Mahal's beard! We thought you fallen to Durin's Bane! How is it that you are come back to us?"

"Mithrandir!" cried Legolas, beaming at Gandalf while the wizard laughed merrily at their collective enthusiasm. "How the sight of you fills my heart with joy! The Valar have been merciful indeed to return you to us in our hour of need!"

"Grey Wanderer!" cried Théoden, offering the new arrival a gracious nod. "I should have known that you were responsible for the disappearance of the lord of the Mearas. No other could have been bold enough to call him from my lands!"

Neville frowned. Gandalf? Mithrandir? Grey Wanderer? How many names did this bloke have?

He listened quietly to all these joyous greetings and more, watching as most of the company lined up to offer Gandalf handshakes and man-hugs galore.

Blimey, he was popular, wasn't he?

"Isn't it lovely, dear?" asked Molly happily, beaming at him while Gandalf spoke with Théoden.

"Er, yeah. Great," replied Neville, who was beginning to feel more nervous the closer Gandalf got to him. He watched Éomer clasp the other wizard's arm warmly, saw the other Rohirrim beaming with mingled delight and relief at his presence. Gandalf moved on to Legolas, who serenaded him in elvish, then the Maia spent five minutes trying to pry Gimli's thickset arms from behind his neck (the dwarf was practically sobbing with joy).

"Where have you been, blasted Wizard?" exclaimed the bushy dwarf after being (forcibly) separated from his friend by Aragorn. "We thought you had abandoned us for the Halls of Mandos, or wherever it is that Wizards go to when their lives end! But you return to us - and all in white, no less!"

"Indeed," added Legolas in a slightly more serious tone. "Now there are two White Wizards. Though this is a state of affairs that I suspect may soon be rectified. But how?"

His question caused a wave of speculation to sweep the small crowd as men began to wonder what would happen to Saruman now that Gandalf had returned as the leader of his order. Neville glanced at Molly, not really sure what all the fuss was about. What did it matter if two wizards strutted about Middle Earth in white? Was the discovery of detergent such a bad thing?

"Patience, Thranduillion," said Gandalf, loud enough for all to hear. "I have not the time to answer all your questions, for I would not deny Saruman the pleasure of our company any longer. Let me say only this: reports of my death have been -"

Gandalf smiled.

"- greatly exaggerated. I _did_ fall in Moria, as did the terror I shall not name, but, whereas I returned, he did not. And, as you see, I _am _White. As to how this will affect Saruman … that will depend on the outcome of our treatise with him."

"I say we topple him from his blackened tower, then pull it down rock by rock to rest upon his foul form!" declared Gimli enthusiastically, waving his axe in readiness. The Rohirrim roared in approval.

It was a thought that made Neville smile: Boromir would heartily approve. So would Molly - she thought the valley a stupid place to build a house and would like nothing more than to be rid of it.

But Gandalf was not impressed by Gimli's (slightly extreme) suggestion. He held up a hand and the roaring company stilled immediately.

"There shall be no toppling of towers this day. Orthanc was once a window on the West for all Men of good heart, and it may be again. As for the toppling of Wizards - that is another matter. Let us hear what Saruman has to say in his defence before his fate finds him."

"Defence? What defence would excuse his ravaging of Rohan? His slaughter of my cousin, the heir of the Horse-lords?" demanded Éomer hotly.

"Aye!" Gimli added. "He was swift enough to slay women and children in their dozens. To use his serpent to addle the wits of a king -"

Théoden glared at the dwarf in affront.

"- so that his hold on the Royal Court was absolute - that he may better move his pawns to ensure his victory over an innocent people. This is not _defence_, it is _offence_! And this Dwarf is _most_ offended on his friends' behalf! I say we forgo his excuses and deliver his fate instead! My axe is keen to know the taste of the traitor's flesh."

Théoden, mollified by Gimli's declaration of friendship for his people (and his death threat to their enemy) stopped glaring at him.

"I see you are ever keen to sate the hunger of your weapon, son of Glóin," said Gandalf wryly. "But I would caution you to forgo the feast that lays beyond yonder tunnel. There may be things that await us there other than one fallen Wizard and they may not take kindly to an axe raised in anger - whether aimed at an Enemy or not. Nay, I shall say no more on the matter yet. All will be revealed soon enough. But do not fear: Saruman the Faithless will answer for his affronts to you all. I only ask that you spare your ire long enough to allow me to speak with him first."

Théoden answered. "Let it be thus. No weapon shall be raised by any until he has spoken his piece. But afterwards …"

He let the sentence trail off, though his meaning was clear to Neville - and everyone else: Saruman was going to pay.

Legolas, in an attempt to dispel the sudden pall of murderous anger that was sweeping the company, tactfully changed the subject.

"Whether he answers for his deeds or nay, I for one am glad to see you returned to us, Mithrandir. The side of Light has just welcomed back its brightest star, its most valiant ally. With your reappearance, the West must now surely prevail against its Enemy!"

"Hear, hear!" cried Gimli enthusiastically. The dwarf was joined by a chorus of assent from the rest of the riders and Neville began to feel even more insignificant than ever.

Instead of accepting the cheer with a gracious nod, Gandalf harrumphed impatiently.

"Whether or not we prevail remains to be seen. The road before us is yet long and arduous, as the one which lies behind us has also been. But you have not trodden that without the aid of a Wizard - or indeed a Witch."

With that, the noble being nudged his equally white horse forward until it stopped before the witch in question. He held out a wrinkled hand to Molly and she offered her own, ready to accept the welcoming shake. But instead of pumping it up and down, he raised it to his lips and bestowed a kiss upon it. Molly blushed furiously.

"_Naneth o Meleth Bronduai_," said Gandalf warmly, addressing her by the name Galadriel bestowed on her during their final minutes in Lothlórien. "What an honour it is to meet one held in such high regard by the Lord and Lady of the Golden Wood."

Molly was crimson. "Oh, what a lovely thing to say! Of course, they're rather splendid people themselves, but I'm sure you know that already. Such pretty tree-houses they have. And so beautifully clean! Not that we stayed in one while we were there, thank goodness; the climb up to Galadriel's alone almost finished me off! I couldn't have done that on a regular basis!"

Aragorn snorted with laughter at Gandalf's bemused expression.

"Ah, yes. Quite, quite. Perhaps - if you have the fortune to visit Lothlórien once more - you may use your broom to raise yourself to Galadriel's lofty abode? That way, you may enjoy the beauty of her 'tree-house' without the arduous climb that precedes it?" suggested the old wizard with a twinkle.

Molly beamed. "What a marvellous idea! And how silly of me not to have thought of it myself."

"Not at all, Molly. You do not object to me addressing you thus, fellow Istar that you are? Good. Well, Molly, I believe it was wiser of you to make your initial appearance in Galadriel's abode in the same manner as all other guests do. As learned and far-travelled as she is, even the Lady of Lothlórien may have known some alarm to see a woman floating up from the forest floor on little more than a length of wood before introductions had even been made."

The company chuckled.

"And this," said Gandalf, allowing his penetrating gaze to settle on the youngest member of the group, "must be Neville Longbottom."

Neville gulped as the wizard studied him, fearing instant dismissal from Middle Earth. He was determined to have his say before Gandalf told him to sod off. But before he could open his mouth to offer his assistance, Gandalf spoke.

"I have heard much of you, son of Longbottom."

The teenager offered a gormless grin, trying to work out where the legendary wizard could possibly have heard of him, and then he recalled that Gandalf mentioned he'd been to Lothlórien.

Oh, no! He'd been to _Lothlórien_. That meant he'd had a cosy chat with a certain Marchwarden about his abuse of the native flora.

Great. Just great. Gandalf already thought he was an idiot. So much for his apprenticeship …

The older wizard was still watching him carefully. His wrinkles gathered in deep furrows across his cheeks and brow as he smiled encouragingly, and Neville realised that he was expected to respond.

"Oh, really? Well, um … ha, ha. I wouldn't pay too much attention to what Haldir says. He's a bit of a grumpy git sometimes. Actually, he's grumpy all the time. Don't think I've ever seen him crack a smile."

He gave a slightly hysterical chuckle and Gandalf's eyebrows crept up his forehead in alarm.

Er, okay. Perhaps slagging off an ally wasn't the best first impression to make. Right. Let's try that again. But how did one greet the most respected and powerful wizard in Arda?

"I've, erm, heard a lot about you, too. Yeah, erm, Cirdan's a big fan of yours. You know Cirdan? Big bloke with a straggly sort of beard? Lives in the Grey Havens? Yeah, well, he was gutted when he heard you'd snuffed it. Bet he was glad to see you come back!"

"Alas, but I had not the opportunity to stop there on my return," Gandalf informed him. "I rose where I fell: from Celebdil's roof."

"Blimey. You popped your clogs on someone's roof?" blurted Neville. "Must've put quite the dent in their shingles, what with that Balrog and all …"

The company hissed at the mention of the creature's name.

Gandalf frowned in disapproval. "Name him not," he stated softly, making the teenager gulp in embarrassment.

"Er, I mean, what with the Thing That Must Not Be Named, and all. Anyway, Cirdan'll be happy, when you finally get round to telling him you're not dead …"

"It is not my wish to increase his distress by withholding that information, young Neville," said Gandalf in mild affront.

Aagh! That wasn't what he meant.

"Course it's not! What I meant was that ... oh, never mind," Neville mumbled, desperately wondering what he could do to salvage the situation. "It really is an honour to meet you in the flesh, sir. And what a relief that that flesh is … erm … intact! Not, you know, decaying -"

Aragorn's expression was becoming more and more horrified with every word Neville uttered, but the teenager couldn't seem to stop.

"- which it wouldn't be, 'cos you're not dead. Well, not anymore. I've never met a wizard who's come back to life. Apart from Voldemort, though he might not've been dead in the first place. He was a dark wizard, though. A right evil git. Just the type of nutter who'd try to cheat death and resurrect himself -"

Gimli put one meaty hand over his eyes and shook his head in despair.

"- looked a bit like a snake, but with arms. _And_ legs. Big, spooky red eyes, too. Really bad breath, though."

Aagh! Why couldn't he shut up? What a time to get a bad case of nerves! Gandalf would send him packing before he ever got the chance to make it through the tunnel into Orthanc!

"Not that I'm saying you're breath stinks. I'm sure it's very nice. Bet the wife loves it. You are married, aren't you? Course you must be. You've got that whole 'silver fox' thing going on. You know; dapper, distinguished. Women love that. Well, Gran does, anyway. Course, if _she_ was you're missus, your hair would be a whole lot shorter …"

A hand descended out of the blue and clamped itself firmly over his mouth. Neville was in two minds about whether he should swat it away, or sag in relief.

"I think that concludes your welcome for the moment, son of Longbottom," hissed Aragorn, dropping his hand with a warning glare at the mortified visitor.

Terrified that he'd jinxed his chances of staying in Middle Earth by insulting its foremost wizard, Neville offered Gandalf a watery smile of apology. But Gandalf's shoulders were shaking with mirth, and he leaned forward to lay a reassuring hand on the youth's arm.

"I am delighted that you think me fragrant and dapper enough to win the affections of your grandmother, young Neville, though I cannot say that the comparison to an evil snake-wizard who uses dark arts to cheat death pleased me quite as much."

Neville turned a very unflattering shade of red.

"Yet, be not alarmed. I am not easily offended and I know that you meant no ill will. Indeed, both the Lord Celeborn and the Lady Galadriel spoke of your regard for me at your first meeting with them. Allow me to express my gratitude. Praise unlooked for is high praise indeed, particularly from one who has never met me before. But I must disagree with the latter part of your statement to them: you are worthier than you think yourself. For not all may so easily gain the favour of the Lady of the Golden Wood, or her spouse, as you have. Nor may just anyone slay an unnatural servant of Sauron's … yes. I have heard of that. Radagast the Brown is not the only one with the power to speak with birds and beasts, though, admittedly, he cultivates the skill more than I."

The old man spoke with birds and beasts? And who the heck was Radagast the Brown? Oh, well. Never mind. He shouldn't be surprised really. If Galadriel could gossip with a Mallorn, why should the idea of Gandalf chatting with a finch or a donkey bother him?

Not that he'd actually _seen_ a finch or a donkey in Middle Earth. Although he had seen an ass (Saruman).

Relieved that he might not have ruined his chances with Gandalf altogether, Neville's smile became a bit more confident.

"Oh, right. Birds and beasts. Well, thanks for the vote of confidence, sir. And sorry about the verbal incontinence. Sometimes I get a bit, erm, flustered. Not in battle, though. Usually. So, ah, does this mean that I can stay?"

Gandalf's face registered surprise. "Stay?"

Oh, no! He was going to tell him to sod off after all! Why had he opened his big mouth? He shouldn't have said a word.

Dejection filled the teenager and he sighed unhappily, wishing for a moment that he was Harry. Gandalf would never have sent Harry home.

"Why do you ask this?" queried Gandalf.

"Well, now that you're back, Middle Earth probably doesn't need me anymore."

The new White Wizard seemed to ponder that for a minute. Neville swapped a concerned glance with Molly, but she was keeping a neutral face. At that moment, it dawned on him that she might be happy to see Gandalf for more reasons than he'd initially suspected. After all, she'd be able to leave, too. Get back to her grieving family. It may only be seconds ago that Arthur and her children had seen her, but she hadn't seen _them_ in weeks.

What a selfish git he was! Here he was, dying to stay a bit longer, when she was probably missing her family.

Not that he wasn't missing Gran or anything. It was just that … Okay, the war was over. School was finished. But what did he have to go back to? Peace, definitely; but other than that, his future was uncertain. He had no idea what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. He hadn't envisioned any sort of career for himself, being far too busy with the business of simply keeping himself and his friends alive.

But he didn't have to worry about that anymore. Now was the time to start rebuilding his life; to make plans for a future he had begun to lose hope in.

Then why was it so difficult to let go of Middle Earth? It wasn't his home. It wasn't even his world. They had their problems, sure, but Gandalf was back now. He could probably take care of Sauron in his sleep.

Neville looked at the faces of those he'd come to admire over the last few weeks: Aragorn, the future King of the Planet; Legolas, immortal, handsome and princely - and not the least bit cocky about it, either; Gimli, gruff, rough and ready to hack the nearest enemy into smithereens, but a big softie, really; Éomer, future King of Horses and scary bloke supreme; Théoden, _actual _King and grieving father who - despite being recently restored to his natural self - was ready to sacrifice his life for his people.

Lastly, he looked at Molly. Sweet, kind, matronly. Always ready with a cup of soup or a deadly curse - whatever was needed to save his life or make him happy at any given moment. She was the kind of mother he'd always dreamed of having. The kind he'd been denied since he was a baby.

But she wasn't _his_ mother. She was someone else's - and he had no right to keep her from those she loved.

Not any longer.

Her face was neutral, impassive as he watched her.

"We can go if you want, Molly," he said, half-dreading her response, but determined to abide by it, whatever it was. "I won't stay if you want to go home. Gandalf can take care of things from here, can't you Gandalf?"

The older wizard nodded. "Strictly speaking, I suppose I could."

Neville's eyes flickered back to his Guardian. A dead silence had fallen on the company while she debated her next words. Then, finally:

"I _do_ miss my family …"

The teenager's spirits sank, but he mustered a smile and a nod.

"Well, that's settled …"

Before he could finish, she continued.

"But they're not going anywhere, dear. It'll still be exactly the same time it was when I left, whichever time I go back at - give or take a few seconds -"

Neville's failing hope stalled mid-plummet.

"- and, well, you did promise to protect the Fellowship so they could finish off Sauron, Neville. The Valar didn't say anything about 'only until Gandalf gets back', did they? Because if they did, then I missed that part. Anyway, the point is; a wizard's oath is his bond. You can't leave until you've fulfilled it, and _that_ won't happen until Sauron's been destroyed. So it seems to me that we can't go anywhere yet."

Gratitude flooded the teenager as his spirits caught hold of his hope and took it soaring to new heights. He beamed at Molly and she blushed.

Flicking imaginary lint off her tweed coat, the Weasley mother added in a casual voice: "Anyway, I haven't had this much fun in years! It's like a really big camping trip, only with lots of smelly orcs that I get to hex into pieces! Besides, it would be a pity to leave before I finished sewing Aragorn's wedding robes. Galadriel gave me a lovely bolt of fabric for them before we left, and I've been working on them in secret. Of course, now you've made me tell him, so it's not a secret anymore. Never mind."

Now it was Aragorn's turn to blush as several sets of eyes landed on him and speculations began about the identity of his bride. But Neville was too happy to care. Thrilled with his good fortune, he leaned over his horse and pulled his Guardian into a hug.

"Thanks, Molly. You don't know how much that means to me."

"Just make sure that you don't make yourself such a big target the next time we encounter a horde of orcs, or I'll kill you myself! Standing on the battlements and waving your arms about as if you were at a Quidditch match! Honestly, as if my job isn't hard enough!" she chided. But the warmth in her voice was unmistakeable.

Neville looked to Gandalf for approval. If the wizard still made him leave after all that …

He needn't have worried. Gandalf eyes were twinkling in a very Dumbledore-esque way.

"Well, the matter appears to have been resolved, young Neville. And to the benefit of Middle Earth, I would say."

"So you don't mind?"

"Mind?" snorted Gimli. "Nonsense, lad! Why would he mind? One can never have too many allies in times such as these!"

"I agree with Master Gimli," said Théoden. "We shall need the skills of both the Wizard of Awes and the White Witch many times over before the war for Middle Earth is won."

Aragorn nodded. "That is so. We have not fought so hard to liberate Rohan from Saruman's grip, only to have it fall to Sauron's. For that is what will happen, young Neville, if we do not strike back at the Dark Lord as soon as we may. Your aid and that of your Guardian's will be as invaluable then as it has been thus far."

The ranger's grey eyes held Neville's brown ones fast. "You and Lady Molly are part of this Fellowship as much as Gandalf or the Hobbits or any other who left Lothlórien so many days ago. I would not see it sundered any further until the victory we fight so hard for is finally ours."

"Oh, what a lovely thing to say, dear!" exclaimed Molly, wiping surreptitiously at her face.

"Good!" declared Gandalf firmly. "Now that that has been settled, I believe we have some matters to resolve with a certain Wizard and I, for one, am impatient to be done with them. Come, friends and allies alike: let us not keep Saruman waiting any longer."

With that, the company assembled themselves in pairs and, with Gandalf and Aragorn in front, began to make their way through the dark tunnel into the abode of the very enemy himself.

**XXX**

Neville and his companions passed through the enormous doors and into the tunnel proper. The _clip-clopping _of the horses' hooves echoed around them as their steeds bore them ever forward. At the mouth of the far end they stopped. His eyes widened as they beheld a great circle, slightly hollowed like a huge porridge bowl. It was easily a mile across from wall to wall. The circle was overlooked by windows and dark doors hewn into the circumference of its perimeter wall. Dark flagstones paved the roads, and at their sides were long lines of marble, copper and iron pillars, joined by heavy chains.

At the centre of the circle, from which all the roads seemed to stem from, was a huge black tower. It soared into the air like Harry on a Firebolt: four mighty piers of many-sided stone welded into one gleaming ebony tower kissing the sky. At its peak, the structure split into several sharp pinnacles, like a lethal crown of stone.

"It's big, isn't it?" said Neville, trying (but failing) not to sound impressed. "Is it only Saruman who lives here?"

"Yes," replied Gandalf, with a nod in his direction. "He would suffer no other company to dwell in his stronghold. Those streets and dungeons you saw hewn into the wall would have housed his foul servants, but he would dwell alone in his tower, secure in the false knowledge of his own greatness."

"What a terrible waste of space!" muttered Molly as she floated past a pillar with a large, bloody hand on it. "All those rooms and only one man to use them. What's the point in that?"

Éomer grunted in disgust. "None, other than to flatter his own sense of majesty. But true majesty resides not in lofty towers barren to all but their ruler; it resides in wisdom and humility, in the respect a leader shows his people, and in his endeavours to bring peace and prosperity to those who look to him for guidance."

"Sounds like your uncle, doesn't it?" remarked Neville absently as the group waded through the filthy pools of water that spotted the courtyard.

"You honour me with your words, young Wizard," said Théoden. "I only wish that I were more deserving of them. Do not forget that I allowed myself to fall under the evil enchantments of Saruman's snake, Wormtongue. And there I would have stayed, bringing ruin to the very people I love, but for the arrival of you and your friends."

Thinking the king was being a bit harsh on himself, Neville shook his head in disagreement.

"You didn't _allow_ yourself to fall under any enchantments, sir. Wormtongue was poisoning you, plain and simple. How were you to know he was slipping stuff in your drinks, or your food, or whatever else he used on you? You're the King. He was your advisor. You're supposed to trust your advisors."

"Ah, but then I am at least guilty of poor judgement."

"Maybe. Maybe not. After all, he was part of your Court for years before the trouble with Saruman started, wasn't he?"

The king nodded.

"And you had no reason to doubt his word then, did you?"

"Perhaps not, but …"

"But nothing, sir. The fact is, he was probably once a loyal subject. Maybe he was unhappy with his lot in life at that point, but not really a _bad_ sort. But once he met Saruman, he would've had access to knowledge that would help him climb the social ladder and increase his own status and power. That must've been irresistible to an ego like his - and Saruman would've been more than happy to encourage this because it fit in with his plans to destroy Rohan. And when Wormtongue became your advisor, well … the rest is history, as they say. So, the way I see it, your faith was correctly placed at the start, but that faith was twisted by forces beyond your control. If it's any consolation, sir, you're not the only person I know to be duped in that way."

Théoden was silent for a few moments as they passed over the muddy pools dotting the courtyard of Orthanc, but then he replied.

"There is a certain wisdom to that, young Wizard. But, if I may enquire, who is the other you know who has been duped thus?"

"Well, I didn't know them personally. They died when I was a baby. James and Lily Potter, the parents of my friend Harry. One of James' friends - one of his _best_ friends - betrayed him and his family to the evil wizard Voldemort. Voldemort was the second most powerful wizard in centuries. He was trying to take over the country. But when he heard of a prophecy that stated a child born at a certain time would destroy him, he spent months trying to find the baby so he could kill him before he grew up to become a threat."

Many of the riders now listening growled in anger.

"He sought to murder a _babe_?" demanded Éomer darkly.

"Yes," replied the teenager. "But, with the help of Albus Dumbledore - the _most_ powerful wizard ever -"

He threw a hasty glance at Gandalf and reworded his sentence slightly.

"- in _my_ world at least - Harry's parents went into hiding with him. They put a powerful enchantment over their house so that no one could find it other than themselves and their Secret Keeper."

"No one at all?" asked Gandalf curiously. The older wizard had slowed his pace to listen to Neville's story.

"No one. Only the Secret Keeper could tell anyone where it was. For years, everyone in the Wizarding world thought Sirius Black, another of his father's best friends, had been the Secret Keeper, because of what happened, but it turned out we were wrong. The day after the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry told me that Voldemort knew they were extremely close and might've targeted Sirius to try and get the information. So Sirius thought it might be a better idea to choose the most unlikely of the group to be Secret Keeper instead, believing that Voldemort would never think it to be him. In the end, they chose Peter Pettigrew. Oddly enough, his nickname was Worm_tail_."

"Wormtongue, Wormtail; I see a most unfortunate pattern emerging," grunted Gimli.

Molly bobbed gently on her Cleansweep when she nodded in agreement. "I know, dear. As soon as I heard that King Théoden had an advisor called Grimworm, I was very suspicious of him!"

Neville stifled a grin. Molly's nickname for Wormtongue was very fitting. His face became more sombre as he continued with the recent history of his own world.

"Unfortunately for the Potters, they had no idea that Pettigrew was already a Death Eater - a servant of the very Dark Lord they were trying to hide their son from. Had been for years."

"And so, when the moment was right, this faithless friend betrayed their location to his master," surmised Gandalf.

"Yes. On a dark October night, when Harry was only one-year-old, Voldemort arrived at their house, passed through the protective wards, and murdered the Potters. First James Potter, then Lily, who had been trying to protect their son. Harry survived, luckily, and he did defeat Voldemort in the end. But it cost him his parents. Or rather, one of his dad's best friends cost him his parents. But they would never have guessed in a million years that someone so close to them could act so dishonourably. Why should they? Pettigrew had been one of James Potter's best friends since they were eleven. They had no reason to suspect him of treachery. Just as you had no reason to suspect Wormtongue, sir. So don't blame yourself. Wizard or Muggle, we're all only human. Apart from Legolas. And Gimli. And maybe Gandalf, too."

Not to mention hobbits, orcs, Ents (which he still hadn't seen), Nazgûl, etc, etc.

No more was said on the matter as the company silently digested the Potters' tragedy. Several minutes later, when the riders had arrived almost at the centre of the ring, a great archway rose before them, leading through to the Tower of Orthanc itself. Doors that should have barred entry lay twisted and in ruin on the ground at their feet. Ahead, mist was rolling away and pale sunlight shone, illuminating stone that had been cracked and scattered in huge piles all around.

"The very stones appear to have been torn from the walls!" declared Legolas. "Water bubbles and gushes in streams ahead, beams lay twisted and splintered as if they were naught but old branches. What has happened here?"

"Maybe he's redecorating?" suggested Neville, eliciting a giggle from Molly. "You know; knock a wall down here and suddenly you've got a kitchen-diner. Or an en suite bathroom. The outdoor swimming pool looks a bit dirty, though."

"I do not believe that Saruman is responsible for this carnage," announced Gandalf. "But I think that we may find the culprits farther ahead."

The older wizard nudged his snowy steed forward and the others followed, passing dangerously leaning pillars, some of which had fallen and were now submerged beneath the flood. The horses picked their way carefully through the devastation of Orthanc, sidestepping rock and twisted metal to carry the riders to the tower proper. Finally, the company stopped a hundred yards or so before the massive structure and all marvelled at its strange, dark beauty.

All except Gandalf. He turned away from it to stare back over the riders' heads at the archway they had just passed through, and Neville found his eyes following the wizard's line of sight. Beside the ruined gates was a large heap of rubble, and on that heap …

Neville rubbed his eyes, hardly daring to believe what he saw. But when his vision cleared, the astonishing sight remained.

"Merry! Pippin!" yelled the teenager ecstatically, moving away from the front of the group (now the _back_ of the group, with everyone turning their horses on the spot to look behind them) to get a better view of his once-missing friends.

One of the hobbits was leaning cross-legged against a broken rock, smoking a pipe. The other reclined lazily beside him, practically sleeping. Bottles, bowls and platters surrounded the pair of them, as if they had just stuffed their faces. But at Neville's shout, the grey-cloaked duo roused from their rest and sprang to their feet, beaming with delight. Merry stepped forward and bowed cheekily, his brown curls flying about his face when he straightened himself back up.

"Welcome, my lords …" he began.

"And lady. Don't forget 'lady', Mer," offered Pippin helpfully, waving at the now tear-streaked face of a delighted Molly Weasley.

Merry threw his cousin an exasperated look. "I was getting to that, Pip, before you interrupted me. Now I'll have to start all over again."

"What do you mean, _all over again_? You only said three words."

Instead of answering, Merry cuffed the younger hobbit's head and cleared his throat to start again.

"Welcome, my lords and _lady_ -"

He glared at Pippin (who grinned cheekily).

"- to Isengard! We are the doorwardens. Meriadoc, son of Saradoc, is my name; and my companion, who, alas! is determined to ruin my greeting …"

"I am not! I just want to make sure you get it right. Hullo Neville! Hullo Molly! Where are Aragorn and the others? Stuck at the back?"

"Will you be quiet, Pip!" snapped Merry. "Now, where was I? Oh, yes: that -"

He jerked a thumb at Pippin and scowled.

"- is Peregrin, son of Paladin, Fool of a Took."

Pippin smacked the back of his cousin's leg in protest.

"Far in the North is our home. The Lord Saruman is within; but at the moment he is closeted with one Wormtongue, or doubtless he would be here to welcome such honourable guests."

"Grimworm?" demanded Molly angrily, abandoning her sudden flight towards the hobbits to stop mid-air, turn, and glower dangerously at the black tower. "How did he get here so fast?"

"Oh, do you know him, Molly?" queried Pippin. "He arrived this morning saying he had important messages for Saruman. At least, we _think_ that's what he was trying to say. For some reason, he can't actually talk, so he sort of mimed with his one good hand. Do you know how difficult it is to decipher a one-handed mime? Of course, it's easy enough for me. I haven't spent years trying to decipher what Merry says when he's got an entire pork pie in his mouth and a massive wedge of cheese in one hand, without picking up a trick or two."

Everyone laughed (except Merry, who glowered at the younger hobbit). Pippin, sensing the danger he was in, moved hastily on with his explanation of Wormtongue's presence.

"Anyway, we didn't believe him. Neither did Treebeard: he locked him up with the master of the Tower. Not that we've actually _seen_ the master of the Tower yet. Saruman seems to be keeping himself out of sight."

"We know him, all right!" said Molly, sniffing in disgust. "He's a very horrible man who left Rohan in a bit of a hurry not long before we did."

"But you stopped at Helm's Deep on the way to fight a mighty battle against Rohan's enemies, whereas he flew directly to the source of that land's strife to consort with its greatest threat of all," said Gandalf sensibly, moving his horse passed the twenty-plus Rohirrim, who were staring in fascination at the two little figures on the rocks.

"Merry! Merry! It's Gandalf! Look - _it's Gandalf_!" shouted Pippin excitedly, pointing at the Maia.

But Merry had recognised the man's voice as soon as he spoke.

"Gandalf?" he said (rather stupidly), shading his eyes from the sunlight to peer at his risen friend and then, realising who he was looking at, shouting as loud as his cousin. "Gandalf! We thought you were dead! We saw you fall after the Bal -"

"Don't say the name!" warned Neville quickly, spotting over two dozen men getting ready to shiver in fear.

"Er, we saw you fall and thought you lost! We were distraught! But all this time you've been alive!"

"Where have you been hiding yourself, Gandalf?" demanded Pippin, grinning through tears.

"I have not been 'hiding' myself, Peregrin Took!" said the wizard gruffly, but there was a twinkle in his eye that lessened the severity of his tone. "I have been engaged in the very important business of recovering from my labours in Moria."

"Oh, I'm so _glad_ to see you, wherever you have been!" cried Merry. "And I'll wager my best pipe that you'll never guess what happened to us, Gandalf! We were kidnapped by Orcs, but then Molly tricked them into freeing her and she made leeks grow from their ears! Pippin wanted to snatch a few in case we got the chance to make a pot of soup later -"

"No, I didn't!"

"- but I told him I'd never be hungry enough to eat _anything_ that sprouted from an Orc's ear."

Their audience chuckled in amusement and Neville quirked an eyebrow at his Guardian. "You fought a hundred orcs with leeks?"

"Amongst other things," she replied nonchalantly.

"And then," continued Merry excitedly, "we escaped into Fangorn. That's where we met Treebeard. He's an Ent, you know -"

Yeah. The teenager knew that. And he was jealous.

"- and we went to an Entmoot - that's a meeting with _lots_ of Ents. You would have loved that, Neville! Don't you wish you had been kidnapped, too?"

Well, this just kept getting better and better, didn't it? Neville was hard-pressed not to strangle the gloating hobbit.

Fortunately, Gandalf intervened before he could commit that most heinous of acts.

"Let us talk later of adventures in forests and other places, Meriadoc. As much as it warms my heart to see such troublesome friends again, there are more pressing matters at hand. Now, tell me: did Saruman himself order you to guard his damaged doors, and watch for guests, when your attention could be spared from plate and bottle?"

"No, good sir, the matter escaped him," answered Merry gravely. "He has been much occupied. Our orders come from Treebeard, who has taken over the management of Isengard. He commanded me to welcome the Lord of Rohan with fitting words, and I would have, too, if Pippin had kept his mouth closed long enough. Still, I hope I have done my best despite this accursed hindrance."

Neville didn't notice anything after that: not Pippin's protests, or Gimli's complaints about their almost four-day hunt across Rohan, not Molly's dash forward to crush them in motherly hugs or the Rohirrim's marvel at the sight of yet more legends come to life. His attention had been captured by one piece of information only.

Treebeard had taken over management of Isengard. Which meant …

He had to be here!

Overjoyed at the thought of seeing his first ever Ent, the teenager scanned the grounds hopefully. But he didn't spot anything remotely tree-like amidst the ruin of pillars, rocks and water.

Brilliant. Why was it that every last person in Orthanc had seen one except him? _Him! _The only ruddy Herbologist in the group!

"Where is Treebeard?" enquired Gandalf of the hobbits, capturing Neville's attention once more.

Merry answered. "Away on the north side, I believe. He went to get a drink of clean water. Most of the other Ents are with him, still busy at their work - over there."

The hobbit waved his hand towards the northerly streaming lake and Neville's eyes tracked the gesture. He heard a distant rumbling and rattling, as if an avalanche was falling from the mountain-side. Far away came a _hoom-hom_, as if horns were blowing in triumph of a battle won.

Was that Treebeard?

"Can we go over and say hello?" asked the teenager, throwing Gandalf a hopeful look.

Gandalf was too engrossed in questioning the hobbits to respond. "And is Orthanc then left unguarded?"

"There is the water," replied Merry. "But Quickbeam and some others are watching it. Not all those posts and pillars in the plain are of Saruman's planting. Quickbeam, I think, is by the rock, near the foot of the stair."

Elated by the news, Neville stretched his neck and peered at the tower ahead, but the stairway into the tower was still too far away for him to discern an Ent from a pillar. Legolas, however, spotted the being with ease.

"Yes, a tall grey Ent is there, but his arms are at his sides and he stands as still as a door-tree."

Tired of always having his goal just out of reach, he kicked Fæleu's flanks once and attempted to urge her onwards. But Gandalf clamped a hand on his arm before the nag took a step.

"Patience, Neville. Did Treebeard leave a message for the Lords from Rohan, Merry?"

Brown curls bobbed up and down. "He left a message, and I was coming to it, but I have been hindered by other questions, and also by my Tookish kin -" Pippin huffed "- but I shall endeavour to overcome these trials -"

Everyone laughed (except Pippin).

"- and deliver it now. I was to say that, if the Lord of the Mark and Aragorn of the North will ride to the northern wall they will find Treebeard there and he will welcome them."

"I'm sure he'll welcome you, too, Gandalf," said Pippin. "And you Neville. And Molly. Not to mention Legolas. He might not be too pleased to see you though, Gimli, if you don't stop swinging that axe."

"I was not 'swinging' it, you young rascal! I was merely ascertaining that the blade was yet sharp."

"I would advise you to 'ascertain' that at a later time, friend Gimli, lest the Ents take it for a threat and part your dwarven head from the anchor of its neck," advised Legolas.

Gandalf raised a hand to still Gimli's bark of protest and the dwarf made do with glaring at the elf's back instead.

"Very well. Thank you for the news, Master Meriadoc. There is no reason for such a large group to leave for the northern wall. Théoden and Aragorn shall suffice for the moment …"

"Can I come, too?" interjected Neville quickly, desperate to meet the Ent. There was a moment of hesitation before Gandalf shook his head.

"Forgive me, Neville, but there will be little time for you to acquaint yourself with him," Gandalf explained regretfully, crushing the teenager's hope instantly. "I must speak privately with Treebeard on matters of import. But do not lose heart, my young friend. You may yet meet Quickbeam when we parlay with Saruman. For now, be content to eat with the others. That way, when I return, you may relate to me what mischief our Hobbit friends have worked since last I saw them."

The thought of Quickbeam _was_ some consolation, but Neville couldn't shake the feeling that Gandalf didn't want him present - a feeling that was compounded when he began to object and, after Gandalf threw the ranger a quick look, Aragorn interceded by pointing out that he should take sustenance to help him recover from his injury. Molly couldn't agree fast enough and, before he knew it, he was watching Gandalf, Aragorn and Théoden nudging their horses to the left, while he was dragged off to follow Merry and Pippin with the others …

**XXX**

It was a full hour later when Gandalf and Aragorn left Treebeard by the northern wall, where they had just finished a long discussion with the majestic Ent. Théoden opted to forgo the rest Gandalf claimed he needed, and had ridden off in search of Éomer and the remainder of their small company, leaving the wizard and the ranger to their own devices.

But Gandalf had no intention of resting - and neither had Aragorn.

"Why did you deny Neville the chance to meet Treebeard, Gandalf? We did not discuss anything with him that he cannot already guess at. What can it matter if he knows that the Ents will guard Saruman if he does not cooperate with us?"

Instead of answering, Gandalf pulled Shadowfax to a halt by a large rock and dismounted, quickly followed by his companion.

"What say you to a pipeful of Old Toby, Dúnadan?" he asked genially. "I have not enjoyed one since I left Rivendell."

"Rivendell? I had thought you came to us directly from the Golden Wood."

Gandalf finished stuffing tobacco into his pipe, lit it, and took a long puff before replying. "An odd thought for you to have. Did I not say earlier that I came here from the West?"

"Yes. Indeed you did. I had forgotten that in my joy at seeing you once more. Yet what took you there? And where were you heading originally, if not to Isengard?"

"I shall explain that in good time, Aragorn. But first …"

He exhaled a cloud of fragrant smoke into the afternoon air and watched it float westwards across the ruin of Orthanc.

"I suspect that our farewell visit with Saruman may prove useless."

Aragorn grunted. "That is to be expected. There is little grace in defeat among his kind."

Gandalf nodded absently. "You have the right of it. He will no more repent his evil deeds than Sauron would - though he would make a better attempt to deceive us into believing otherwise. Or at least he would have, before the occurrence of certain … events."

"Certain events?"

The ranger watched him curiously, and Gandalf knew he was waiting for him to elaborate. Which he would … in his own time.

"Young Master Longbottom seems wise beyond his years, do you not think?" said Gandalf, thinking of the tragic tale of the Potters he had related in an effort to lessen Théoden's self-recriminations over Grima.

Aragorn sighed in defeat, and a smile crept over Gandalf's face at the sound of it, but he knew Aragorn was too well used to his evasiveness to try and make him elaborate before he was ready. Instead, the younger man nodded in agreement.

"He and the Lady Molly have lived through much of late. They have recently won a war in their own world - a war which robbed the good witch of a most beloved son."

"Yet still she came with Neville to protect him while he fights with us. It says much of her character. And of Neville's own."

"Indeed. I have rarely met such selfless people, Gandalf," said Aragorn with a fond smile. "They have naught to gain by aiding us, lest it be their own end. But they fight nonetheless. They fight so that strangers in another world may know the same peace they have already won in theirs. With such people amidst their own forces, 'tis of no surprise that their Dark Lord was defeated."

"_Another_ world, you say?" muttered Gandalf around the stem of his pipe. "Perhaps it is, for some."

Once again, the wizard felt the probing gaze of his friend, and once again he opted to change the subject.

"So, their presence would seem as a blessing to you?"

He exhaled slowly, and the smoke formed into two rabbits which chased each other off the rock and out into the broader court. Gandalf abandoned his view of them to glance at the dark-haired man, and saw a frown etched on his face.

"Certainly," stated Aragorn firmly. "Were it not for their aid, Helm's Deep may have been lost beyond the aid of even the Huorns."

"Then it would surprise you to learn that the presence of the boy may prove more dangerous to Middle Earth than Saruman ever was?"

As expected, Aragorn was speechless for several seconds. His grey eyes widened in shock, and his pipe rested forgotten in his left hand as he turned from his perch on the edge of the rock to face the wizard.

"What mean you by this, Gandalf? You cannot think he would betray us? For if so, then I must tell you that you err. The Valar themselves plucked him from his home to ask for his service - they would not have chosen one who was not worthy of such a duty. Galadriel has looked into his heart and seen naught but a genuine desire to aid us. I myself have spent several weeks with him, and I tell you now that he is as true as any Dúnedain that I have ever known!"

"Peace, Aragorn!" exclaimed the ancient wizard, holding up his free hand to ward off any further protests. "Your faith in him does you credit, but you err if you think I question his noble intent."

"Then, forgive me, but I do not understand what else could lead you to such a conclusion."

"Then let me enlighten you, my friend. You know that the Valar called both him and Molly to aid us?"

Aragorn nodded a little impatiently.

"What you do _not_ know, is that they are not the only Wizards to travel the Void into Middle Earth."

"There is _another_?" muttered the younger man in confusion. "But, I do not understand. Why would the Valar call another and not inform Neville or the Lady Molly? For they have no knowledge of another Wizard …"

Suddenly, Aragorn broke off and Gandalf watched in some curiosity as confusion was chased from the ranger's face by elucidation, then astonishment.

"It is not another Wizard, though, is it? It is a Witch. _Glorfindel's mysterious aunt! _That is why you went to Rivendell - to see _her_. But she was not there!"

Gandalf frowned. By all the stars! How did the blasted ranger know that?

"You astonish me, Dúnadan. I had not thought you so well informed."

"Then you will also be astonished by the news that the lady and Glorfindel managed to reduce Saruman's forces from ten thousand to nine thousand, before the Orcish army even reached Helm's Deep."

Aragorn was right. Gandalf _was_ astonished. So astonished he dropped his pipe and had to retrieve it from the folds of his robe before it burned a hole through them.

It was a grinning ranger who told him of the Rohirric scout's tidings before the battle of Helm's Deep, and of their own discoveries on the road. Or _in_ the road, rather - all the way from the Fords of Isen to Isengard itself. Gandalf was impressed. Two people against an army of thousands, and they had managed to reduce it by ten percent between them? It was a great relief to him that Augusta Longbottom and Glorfindel were on _his_ side …

Nevertheless, he still had information that his smug friend would never guess at …

"'Tis an extraordinary tale indeed. And fortunate that the Witch is a friend to our cause. But there is one important fact that you do not yet know: the identity of the Witch in question."

Ah. That did it! Now Aragorn was staring at _him_ in wide-eyed wonder. Which was exactly as it ought to be. He was a _wizard_, after all.

"And you do?"

Gandalf smiled. "Of course. She is none other than our young friend Neville's grandmother; Mistress Augusta Longbottom."

Aragorn's jaw dropped, and it was almost a minute before he could close it to articulate.

"_What?_" the astounded ranger exclaimed. "His_ grandmother_? I am all astonishment!"

That much was clear. The ranger's eyes were so wide with shock that, another few millimetres, and they would have popped out of his head and rolled off the very rock they both sat on.

"His _grandmother!_ Neville has spoken of her, of course, but … I never _dreamed_ we would have the opportunity of seeing her!"

At that, Gandalf dropped his teasing tone and became serious.

"Nay, Aragorn. That must not happen. Not yet, at least. Not until Sauron has fallen. For if our young friend saw her before that …"

"Are you saying," began the ranger, leaning across the rock to stare earnestly at the wizard, "that if they do, Middle Earth may fall? Have you foreseen this?"

"I am saying it is possible. It was but one fleeting vision of the future amidst many others in the Mirror of Galadriel. But the future is always in motion. Still, I am loathe to take the chance that this one - so dark and dreadful as it is - may be the one among many that yields its dreadful fruit."

"And, fleeting or nay, it has alarmed you enough to set out on a quest: one which would warn Neville against a reunion with his kin ere the end of the war."

The wizard shook his head. "Nay, Aragorn. I would that he did not so much as _know_ of her presence until then. You must keep this from him - and all others - until Sauron falls. And you must keep him from Gondor until Sauron falls. _If_ Sauron falls."

"But how can that be prevented?" asked the ranger, running a hand over his dark beard thoughtfully. "Middle Earth may be large, but at present all roads through it must eventually lead to the White City. _My_ road will certainly lead there, as will that of Théoden, if I can persuade him to muster an army in defence of it - for the Dark Lord will surely attack it soon. How can I ask Neville to remain behind while we set off to war? If his presence is so dangerous to us, then why did you not bid him to leave Arda when he offered?"

"Alas, but it is beyond my power."

A puzzled look graced the ranger's face and, knocking the remnants of tobacco from his pipe, Gandalf explained.

"As long as his grandmother remains in Middle Earth, Neville will be unable to leave it without her. Nay, do not ask why this is, for it would take too long to explain and time is against us. Suffice to say this: Augusta Longbottom's entry into Middle Earth was not intended. She came, not at the request of the Valar, but on the fringe of Neville's own invitation and without their full authority. Were he to leave without her, it may prove fatal to the lady."

"But the Valar have the power to save her, do they not? To return her safely to her own world?"

"Yes, they do. But she would have to reach Valinor first - a journey of many months from Gondor. Had Neville left today, she would have perished long before she could ever have completed her journey there."

"And our young friend would have been rewarded with the most acute grief on return to his world, in gratitude for all his efforts in aiding ours," surmised Aragorn.

"Precisely. Now you understand the dilemma."

The ranger clenched his jaw and gave a single nod. "If he stays, Middle Earth may fall; if he leaves now, he risks losing his grandmother. 'Tis an evil choice, Gandalf. The lady is the only mother he has ever known."

"Then it remains for us to keep them parted for as long as possible."

A thoughtful silence ensued as Gandalf and Aragorn mulled over the problem. Seconds passed into minutes until, finally, Aragorn broke the silence.

"I cannot promise to keep him from Gondor forever, my friend, but I may be able to divert him for a while at least."

Gandalf's interest was immediately perked. "And what do you propose?"

Aragorn knocked his pipe against the rock then pocketed it inside his shirt.

"It was Neville himself who provided the answer to this problem. The night before our battle with Saruman's army, he had a dream - a vision, of sorts, sent to him by Galadriel herself. Within this vision, a message was relayed to me, among others."

"Would this message have aught to do with the Grey Company?"

"How do you know this?"

"It was I who was supposed to deliver that message to you, and others to Legolas and Gimli. But I was waylaid by my visit to Rivendell," replied Gandalf.

"I see. I notice that you have said naught of the messages for Neville and his Guardian."

Gandalf frowned.

"That is because there _were_ no others when I left Lothlórien," he admitted, slightly vexed. "Tell me what these new ones are."

Aragorn did, relating Molly's warning from the elven queen, and the more dramatic one regarding Neville.

"'_If foulness engulfs thee and fear holds thee still,_ _another may wield thine own weapon to kill',"_ quoted Gandalf after Aragorn was finished. "How interesting. Perhaps all is not lost after all."

"You know what this means?" asked his friend, eager for the benefit of his knowledge.

But Gandalf was not keen to share anything other than the most cryptic of remarks. "Not entirely. Only that should the worst happen, there may yet be a flicker of golden light to brighten the darkness. Good. That is some comfort at least. But I will still see what I may do to prevent its necessity."

With that, he pulled himself from his seat and called to Shadowfax. The Meara abandoned what little grass he had found, trotting over with Hasufel in his wake, and the two friends were soon mounted upon them.

"You are aware what your message signifies, are you not?" Gandalf asked once they were seated comfortably. He patted Shadowfax absently while he studied Aragorn's grave face.

"Verily. Yet I had hoped not to take that path unless there was no other choice."

Gandalf sympathised. The thought of rallying several thousand ghosts to battle was unpleasant, even to him. But it could not be avoided, and he said this.

"Even were Théoden able to raise an army of ten thousand, that will not be enough to stay the forthcoming assault on Minas Tirith. And make no mistake, Aragorn, that assault is coming - and it will be terrible in its might. Already the eastern sky darkens with Sauron's shadow. He sends it before his Orcs, that they may travel in safety. And it grows longer every day. The fate of the White City is imminent. We shall need all the aid we can muster: alive or dead."

The younger man's face tensed briefly with the weight of his decision. But it relaxed shortly thereafter, and Aragorn's grey eyes were clear and determined when they focussed on him once more.

"You speak wisely, my friend. I shall delay the choice no longer. Once I have spoken with Théoden and secured his support, then I shall take Neville, and any others who wish to follow, and travel along the Paths of the Dead."

"And I will travel to Minas Tirith to see if I can locate Neville's grandmother," added Gandalf, fervently hoping he could complete the task without acquiring an impressive bosom. "It should not be a difficult task, for the City is not likely to have many Witches roaming its streets. And, when I find her, it should be easy to persuade her to remain concealed from her grandson until the outcome of the war is decided. Glorfindel will be of aid to me there."

Aragorn smirked. "It sounds almost as if you are trying to convince yourself of that more than you are trying to convince me."

Irritated that his friend had guessed correctly, Gandalf huffed. "Nonsense! Why should I need to convince myself?"

"I can think of one thousand reasons, at least - most of which are lining the road from the Fords of Isen to Isengard itself. That was not the work of Glorfindel."

An astute observation - one which was enough to make the wizard chuckle ruefully. "That is not the worst of it. You have not heard of her encounter with Saruman, have you?"

"She has already met Saruman?" exclaimed the startled ranger. Then he grinned. "I suspect that our former ally did not come out the better for that encounter."

"You suspect correctly - again. A rather annoying habit of yours, Dúnadan. Elrond's influence, no doubt. Come, let me tell you the story as we ride back to join our friends."

And with that, the two men nudged their steeds forward and made their cautious way across the wasteland of Isengard.

**XXX**

While Gandalf, Aragorn and Théoden were making their merry way to speak to Treebeard, a slightly dejected Neville followed Legolas, Gimli and Molly to the hobbits' rocky oasis. The other riders had fanned out in search of their own places to luncheon, considerately leaving the small group of friends to their happy reunion.

At Pippin's suggestion, everyone (except Molly) rode back through the arch (she flew, much to the hobbits' delight. They spent ten minutes trying to convince her to accept passengers, but relented when she threatened to hex their mouths shut. And sealed lips were not conducive to eating ...) until they came to a wide door on the left wall. Dismounting, they allowed the horses to roam free in search of what grass there was still to be found amidst the ruin of Isengard's courtyard and climbed the stairs beyond the door. It opened into a large chamber with smaller doors at the other end, and a fire already burned in a large hearth. Light spilled through the broken roof, illuminating the chamber and the long table which ran the length of it.

"I lit a bit of a fire," said Pippin. "It cheered us up in the fogs."

"It's perfect, dear!" exclaimed Molly, who began to shoo the party into seats, while simultaneously whipping a frying pan out of her knapsack. Merry and Pippin disappeared off to the storerooms, returning with plates and goblets, then disappeared again, only to return with bread, pork, cheeses, wine and beer. For the first time, Neville noted something odd about the pair.

"Is it just me, or are you two taller than the last time I saw you?" he asked.

"Aye, I noticed that, too," said Gimli, sweeping his not-so-short friends with shrewd eyes.

Pippin grinned in delight and puffed out his chest proudly. "You did? That's the Ent draught Treebeard gave us. It makes you grow. I'm at least ten inches taller than I was one week ago."

"Rubbish, Pip," Merry chided him. "You're three at the most. Now, sit down and we can tell them all about it while we eat."

Molly added sausages, eggs and a massive roll of black pudding to the provender, and soon all were seated and munching happily while the hobbits spoke of their adventures.

Everyone listened with great interest as Merry and Pippin related the tale of their kidnapping, their flight from the orcs and subsequent meeting with Treebeard, the draught of the Ents which had added (only a few, despite Pippin's claims to the contrary) inches to their stature, and the Entmoot which had culminated in the tree-herder's decision to strike at Saruman and his armies.

"But how did they know that we would be at Helm's Deep?" asked Neville, chewing on one of Molly's sausages.

"I don't know," admitted Pippin. The hobbit sniffed his black pudding suspiciously before taking a (huge) bite, then gazed at the witch in adoration. "I love you, Molly!"

She beamed. "Oh, do you like it? It's just as well - I've another three rolls of it left."

"I suspect that the main strongholds of Rohan are well known to the Ents," said Legolas, bringing the conversation back on topic. "Fangorn does border their land, and who knows how many of them have made themselves familiar with it."

"I do not know that the thought of trees roaming about Rohan, gathering intelligence on her strengths for their leader, pleases me," Éomer muttered.

"I do not know that the thought of trees _roaming_ pleases me," added Gimli darkly.

"What're you complaining about?" grumbled Neville. "At least you got to _see_ them. Anyway, those trees you're not so fond of helped us out at Helm's Deep."

"Yes, they did, Master Wizard," said Éomer, somewhat contritely. "You have the right of it. Regardless of their reasons for roaming our lands, they have never harmed our people. Indeed, their knowledge of it has been an aid to us, and for that I am grateful!"

When the meal was finished and the table cleared, the hobbits produced pipes (much to Legolas' and Molly's disgust) and everyone moved outside so they and those that indulged in the habit could smoke some 'Neville' Longbottom Leaf (the teenager rolled his eyes).

There, Merry and Pippin continued their narration, relating how they had come with Treebeard himself to launch an assault on Isengard; how the Ents had ripped the gates and walls of Orthanc apart in their fury, then diverted the flow of the Isen by building dams to flood into Isengard at midnight the day before, which had resulted in all the fires of Saruman's pits being extinguished forever.

"I don't know what Saruman thought was happening; but anyway he did not know how to deal with it. He has not much plain courage alone in a tight place without lots of slaves and machines and things, if you know what I mean," said Merry.

"Yeah, we know," sniggered Neville. "He ran away from Molly at Fangorn. Course, that might've had something to do with the antlers. Or the Burning Serpent."

Legolas and Gimli joined the teenager in his chuckles at the mention of the Burning Serpent, leaving Molly to explain to the curious hobbits what her charge had been referring to. Soon, everyone was laughing at the shock on their innocent faces.

Théoden joined them shortly before Merry and Pippin finished their extraordinary tale and the king was soon sandwiched between the two hobbits, lost in a discussion about families and pipe-smoking. Not long afterwards, a soldier came up to the small terrace to let them know that Gandalf and Aragorn had returned, and were awaiting their company for the parlay with Saruman.

Delighted by the news, Neville sprang from his stony ledge and took the staircase with all haste.

But it was not the parlay with Saruman that thrilled him so much. Oh, no. He was going to meet an Ent!

_Finally!_

Gandalf and Aragorn were already past the archway when Neville and the others arrived. The older wizard beckoned him over with a crook of his forefinger.

"Come, Neville. Ride with me," said Gandalf sombrely. The teenager navigated Fæleu carefully through the wet, rock-littered ground until he drew even with the White Wizard, but before they set off the majestic black tower, Gandalf issued a warning to the hobbits. "I go now to issue Saruman a farewell visit. Those of you who wish may come with me - but beware! And do not jest! This is not the time for it."

Merry and Pippin nodded gravely.

"I will come," said Gimli. "I wish to see him and learn if he really looks like you."

"Take it from me: he looks _nothing_ like Gandalf - at least, not anymore," answered Neville (who had been the only one of the Four Hunters who had gotten close enough to the fallen Maia at Fangorn Forest to know any better).

"Be that as it may, Saruman could still look like me in your eyes, if it suited his purpose, young Wizard. And are you wise enough to detect all his counterfeits? Well, we shall see, perhaps. He may be shy of showing himself before many eyes together."

Neville smothered a grin, thinking of the various colourful hues Saruman boasted. 'Shy' was probably an understatement.

"But I have ordered all the Ents to remove themselves from sight, so perhaps we shall persuade him to come out."

_Ordered all the Ents to remove themselves from sight_? Why? And did that mean Quickbeam, too?

The teenager ignored the rest of the conversation to stare into the distance, trying to discern if the tree-like being still stood at the stairs to the tower, but he could see nothing other than towering black rock.

Typical. Whoever Gandalf had given his orders to, they had taken them literally and told Quickbeam to sod off, too.

Resigned to the fact that it just wasn't his lucky day, he shook off his childish disappointment and squared his shoulders manfully, ready to face the git whose soldiers had slaughtered Boromir. When Gandalf was finished issuing warnings, and was satisfied that all were ready to treat the upcoming parlay with caution, Neville followed his new friends over the ruined grounds towards the Tower of Orthanc …

The small party arrived at the foot of the black (Quickbeam-free) tower a few minutes later. The rock gleamed as if it were wet, its many faces of stone as sharp-edged as if it had been newly chiselled. The only evidence of the Ents fury here, were the few scorings and flake-like splinters near the tower's base. Neville pulled Fæleu to a halt next to Molly's Cleansweep and Gandalf moved ahead with Aragorn and Théoden to stand at the head of the company. Pippin, seated with Neville, and Merry, with Éomer, wore uncharacteristically serious expressions. Legolas' face was devoid of emotion as he stared at the tower and Gimli fingered his axe while scowling at it ferociously (probably hoping that Saruman would walk out and freely offer up his neck for the hacking).

After a few short words about who would enter the tower, Gandalf dismounted and made his way up the stone steps with Aragorn, Théoden, Legolas and Gimli in tow. But when Gandalf banged on the doors with his staff, there was no reply.

"Maybe there's no one home? He might've popped out for a pint of milk and a packet of biscuits, or something," whispered Neville. Pippin sniggered. "We are his guests, after all."

"Oh, there's someone home, all right!" exclaimed Molly in a surprisingly vicious tone. She lifted her arm and pointed to a window above the tall doors, where a pale-faced figure with greasy hair glared malevolently at the quintet on the steps below. "Grimworm!"

The former counsellor of Rohan started at her shout of outrage. His attention was drawn away from Gandalf, and fixed itself on the fuming witch instead. Neville watched in great amusement as the man paled even further at the sight of his (hovering) nemesis. Wormtongue's mouth opened in a (silent) scream of horror, then he stumbled backwards, slamming the window shut and disappearing from sight.

"That's right, you sorry excuse for a Muggle: run to your master and tell him I'm here to finish the job I started at Fangorn!" barked the witch.

"Molly, have I ever told you I love you?" asked Neville with a grin.

"No," she replied, removing her wand from her coat pocket and thumping her knee with it impatiently as she glared at the tower (reminding the teenager very much of Gimli. Perhaps they _were_ related, after all?). "But it's always nice to hear, dear."

Before Neville could respond to her, another voice spoke, low and melodious, its very sound an enchantment. He was overcome with a feeling of contentment as he listened to it but, for the life of him, he had no idea what it was actually _saying_. All Neville knew, was that it seemed wise, reasonable. In fact, it sounded to him very much like Professor Dumbledore greeting his students at the start of the new school year, telling them to keep out of the Forbidden Forest, warning them not to use magic in the halls …

_So_ comforting.

For a few, blissful seconds, Neville lost himself to the joy of hearing his old headmaster again, content to let the words roll over him, flow through him, fill him up with their warmth and affection. With a happy sigh, he anticipated the Welcoming Feast that always followed Dumbledore's greeting, and his mouth watered at the thought of roast beef and mash, pumpkin pie, rice pudding and prunes, and treacle tart. His gaze slipped over the others, and it was to his very great surprise that he saw that Molly flushed with anger beside him. She was actually glaring hot coals at their headmaster.

What was wrong with _her_? Why was she giving Dumbledore the evil eye? She should be happy to see him! He was the greatest wizard that ever lived! He was their friend! He was alive!

Er, wait a minute: _alive_? No he wasn't …

With a Herculean effort, Neville shook his head free of the deliciously fuzzy feeling that had taken root in his brain and the glorious voice suddenly vanished, replaced with the soft, but clearly deceptive baritone of a deceiver.

A tall, cloaked figure had appeared at the balcony above Grima's window and was looking down at the party on the steps to his tower. The man's face and body were hidden beneath the folds of the grubby robe draped over his body, concealing him from sight, but it could only be one person: Saruman.

Neville's jaw clenched in anger. What an idiot he was! What a complete, utter prat! He'd just been seduced by an Imperius! Well, a sort-of Imperius. Still, at least the evil git hadn't made him strip naked and ride Fæleu straight into the nearest wall (of which there were many). And he _had_ been able to fight it off.

Embarrassed that he'd been so easily duped, but relieved that he wasn't the only one (Pippin was beaming at Saruman, and one of the other Riders of Rohan offered the fallen wizard a cheery wave), he pinched the hobbit's arm until Pippin, too, cleared his head of the deceptive tones.

Gandalf and the others were still at the doorway, staring up at their 'host'. Éomer, however, was still with the riders, and when he urged his horse a step forward, all the Rohirrim followed suit, unwittingly leaving Neville and Molly at the rear of the group.

"Well?" probed Saruman gently. "Why must you disturb my rest? Will you give me no peace at all by day or night?"

The wizard's tone was that of a friendly neighbour, one that was a little put-out by a disturbance next door, but Neville was not to be fooled by him a second time.

"Have you no answer for me, my friends? Yes; friends I name you, for two at least of you I know by name. Gandalf I know too well to hope that he seeks help or counsel here. But you, Théoden Lord of the Mark of Rohan, are declared by your noble devices, and still more by the fair countenance of the house of Eorl."

Oh, please! Did the daft bloke honestly expect anyone to swallow that? Not two days ago he had tried to wipe the house of Eorl from existence, and now he was complimenting the king on his good looks? What a git!

"Oh worthy son of Thengel the Thrice-renowned! Why have you not come before, and as a friend? "

Probably because the daft pillock had been trying to kill him for the better part of five years?

"Much have I desired to see you, mightiest king of western lands -"

To kill him in person, no doubt.

"- and especially in these latter years, to save you from the unwise and evil counsels that beset you!"

What a cauldronful of poo.

"Is it yet too late?" oozed the fallen wizard.

Er, yes?

"Despite the injuries that have been done to me, in which the men of Rohan, alas! have had some part, still I would save you, and deliver you from the ruin that draws nigh inevitably, if you ride upon this road which you have taken. Indeed I alone can aid you now."

From his position a little way behind the (huge) Rohirrim soldiers, Neville couldn't see Théoden's face properly, but he _was_ at an angle to at least see the man's jaw drop a little, before the king turned to glance at Gandalf. Théoden hesitated when Gandalf made no sign to acknowledge him and some of the other Rohirrim stirred, murmuring words of approval, before falling silent again. A few of them cast recriminating looks at Gandalf and, instantly, Neville recognised the glazed expressions for what they were.

The riders were still under the quasi-Imperius!

By the look of it, Saruman was using it to stir discontent among his enemies. And if he succeeded …

Deeming it time to intercede, Neville leaned over to Molly and whispered in her ear. Together, the two drew their wands and, as discreetly as possible, shot several mild Stinging hexes at their stricken allies (hoping against hope that nobody would catch them in the act - wouldn't do to have the Rohirrim turn their potential aggression from Gandalf to them, after all). The spells weren't strong enough to hurt them, just enough to jolt the hairy blokes out of their collective stupor.

The ploy, unnoticed by the main players at the tower itself, worked. Nearly a dozen men gasped and jerked in quick succession as the spells hit home. Seconds later, they had transferred their glares from Gandalf to Saruman, convinced the evil wizard had just used some dark magic to try and fry them in their saddles.

Excellent!

Very pleased with themselves, Neville and Molly shared a conspiratorial grin before returning their attention to Saruman, who was still trying to convince everyone he was their bestest mate ever. But Gimli, fed up with man, called him to task for his lies, which angered their host.

"Peace, Gimli Glóin's son. Far away is your home and small concern of yours are the troubles of this land. But it was not by doings of your own that you were embroiled in them, and so I will not blame such part as you have played - a valiant one, I doubt not. But I pray you, allow me first to speak with the King of Rohan, my neighbour, and once my friend. What have you to say, Théoden King? Will you have peace with me, and all the aid that my knowledge, founded in long years, can bring?"

Neville snorted in disgust as Saruman prattled away. Théoden still did not reply to the other wizard's words, and the teenager couldn't blame him. He was probably too gobsmacked at the lies he was hearing. Éomer, however, was not shy about his opinions and soon he and Saruman were trading words; the heir's tone sharp and accusing, Saruman's at first harsh, then softer, as he gently rebuked the king's nephew, then returned his attentions to Théoden himself.

Eventually, the king found his voice.

"We will have peace," began Théoden thickly. Neville, Molly and Gimli grunted in disbelief, but then he continued in a clearer voice. "Yes, we will have peace when you and all your works have perished - and the works of your dark master to whom you would deliver us. You are a liar, Saruman, and a corrupter of men's hearts. You hold out your hand to me, and I perceive only a finger of the claw of Mordor. Cruel and cold!"

It was with much satisfaction that the teenager and his friends listened to the king's judgement of their collective enemy. Saruman's face darkened with anger and he hissed angrily back at the aged monarch, hurling insults from the balcony at the Lord of Rohan before turning to address Gandalf.

"How is it that you can endure such company?" demanded Saruman, sounded very much like an ultra-posh Draco Malfoy asking Snape how could bear to be in the same classroom with a horde of Muggle-borns. "For you are proud, Gandalf - and not without reason, having a noble mind and eyes that look both deep and far. Even now will you not listen to my counsel?"

Gandalf stirred and looked up at his former leader. "What have you to say that you did not say at our last meeting?" he asked. "Or perhaps you have things to unsay?"

"Unsay?" queried Saruman, as if he was genuinely puzzled. "I endeavoured to advise you for your own good, but you scarcely listened."

"I can just imagine what his 'advice' sounded like," mumbled Molly.

So could Neville. Something along the lines of, 'Join me or die'.

Saruman spent another few minutes offering false apologies for his former conduct at that meeting (and the more the teenager heard, the more he wished he'd been a fly on the wall at it), but then the grubby wizard started talking about his 'friendship' with Gandalf, and how 'lesser folk' should be waiting on _their_ decisions. It was so reminiscent of Alecto Carrow's diatribes in Muggle Studies that his stomach roiled in protest.

Which was too much for Neville …

Much to the surprise of everyone present (including himself), he made his presence known with his own accusations.

"You've got some nerve calling him 'friend', you foul git. Do you think there's anyone here who doesn't know you tricked him into facing that Balrog?"

A collective shiver ran through the party, but Neville was too annoyed to remember he wasn't supposed to name the creature. He fixed angry eyes on the cloaked figure and spent his vocal fury.

"Do you think there's anyone here that doubts you used your slimy lackey to worm your way into the King of Rohan's court, or bad-mouth Gandalf when he'd done so? And now you want to be his best mate? And let's not forget the fact that you had your servant poison King Théoden, so that you could plot to overthrow him and murder all his people. Like you murdered his son! Like you murdered Boromir! Like you murdered innocent Rohirrim - men, women and _children_ - all the way from Isengard to Helm's Deep?"

The teenager was seething with anger. He remembered the faces of all his dead school friends at Hogwarts. They had been children, too. Children who had been robbed of their lives by a mad despot.

Just like Saruman.

Well, there was no way he was going to allow Saruman to sully the memory of Rohan's lost generation by speaking of a friendship he'd never shown.

"You're a liar and a murderer. Everyone here knows it. So spare us your empty words, they offend our intelligence. There's nothing superior about you. And you definitely don't know the first thing about friendship!"

Silence filled the air. The cloaked figure on the balcony swayed slightly, back and forth, as if reeling from his speech. Then Saruman spoke:

Or rather, he yelled.

"_Longbottom!_"

Every eye in Orthanc swivelled from Saruman to Neville, surprise etched on everyone's faces at the hatred in the Maia's voice. Gandalf had, for some reason, paled considerably, and made to move down the steps, almost as if he wanted to shield the youth from view. But it was too late. Saruman had spotted Neville now.

"So, we meet again, Wizard-boy. And I see you have brought your Witch protectress with you? How … delightful," spat the cloaked figure, and Neville watched in disbelief as his enemy's hand moved slowly towards his groin (probably in remembered agony), before it stilled and gripped the balcony instead.

"Saruman!" barked Gandalf, attempting to distract the other wizard's attention from the youth. "We are not come hither to listen to you bandy words with children. We come to treat with you."

"Then, by all means treat, Gandalf," said Saruman softly.

Dangerously.

"But if you wish to do so, then will you not enter my hall - and bring the boy with you? I wish to offer him my apology for our last encounter. Alas! but I fear that he and I were not of an accord at the eaves of Fangorn. I wish to put right any offence I may have caused both him, and the good lady who accompanies him."

Gandalf grunted. "Nay, I do not think we will come up. The guest who has escaped from the roof will think twice before he comes back in by the door, and most certainly before he subjects his friends to his former jailor's hospitality."

"Well, you can stay there if you like," growled Molly, looking ready to fly right up to the balcony and single-handedly knock the stuffing out of Saruman. "But I've got no problem with a door, a roof _or_ a window. My broomstick will see me safe either way. I've got unfinished business with him, and if he wants to apologise before I hex his bits off, that's fine with me!"

A rumble of appreciative laughter swept the hairy blond crowd, but Neville didn't join in this time. He was too busy thinking about Boromir's bloody body, and all the orcish arrows that had pierced it, courtesy of Saruman.

"I'm happy to jump on the back of Molly's Cleansweep and finish off the rest of him," he said, his face darkening uncharacteristically. "Call it a farewell gift from a fallen friend."

"You're assuming there'll _be_ anything of him left over to finish," his Guardian added. "Boromir was my friend, too."

"It seems your companions wish to accept my offer, even if you do not, old friend," said Saruman to Gandalf, with an unmistakeable hint of triumph in his voice. But before he could gloat any further, Neville confronted him again.

"Yeah, we do. We really do. We'd love to hear your apology in person, wouldn't we Molly?"

The red-head nodded eagerly.

"Maybe afterwards we can have a nice cup of tea, eh? Talk about the weather? Discuss your plans to redecorate?" suggested Neville pleasantly. Pippin had twisted in the seat in front of him to glance up at the youth in puzzlement. Even some of the others watched him with incredulous eyes, wondering if he'd lost the plot, no doubt.

Nothing could be farther from the truth. The teenager gripped his wand tightly, ready to make use of it.

"But before we do," he continued in a sharper tone, "why don't you do us the favour of taking that cloak off? So we can look you in the face when you grovel?"

All eyes swung back to the balcony, where Saruman had taken a hasty step backwards from the railing, and was gripping his cloak more firmly about his form.

"You would not deprive an old man of his cloak, surely? The day is chill, and these stone halls do not retain heat as well as they aught."

Neville rolled his eyes in disgust.

"Don't worry about that. I know a nice little charm that'll heat you right up," he drawled, and, with a sudden flick of his wrist, he fired off a quick spell in Saruman's direction. There was a huge roar of anger as Saruman's grubby white cloak tore itself free of his iron grip and floated over the railing to land in a filthy puddle on the ground.

At first, no one spoke as the full effect of the green, yellow and orange wizard worked its magic on them. Two broken horns protruded from the top of his head - all that was left of the magnificent antlers Molly had given him a week earlier. Saruman, who would have turned puce if his complexion allowed it, bellowed with rage and made to flee for the balcony doors, but a well aimed Colloportus from Neville's cherry wand successfully barricaded his exit. With a cry of utmost hatred, he turned to glower hatefully at the teenager. The act of turning put his profile into sharp relief and a collective gasp rang through the afternoon air as every living person in Isengard noticed his magnificent chest.

Jaws dropped in disbelief at the sight of Saruman's twin bulges. Neville was speechless.

Godric's sword! What the ruddy heck had happened to _him_? Crikey, those beauties must be at least … well, a _very_ big handful. A _Hagrid_ handful!

The thought of Hagrid handling Saruman's … unfortunate protuberances … was so disturbing, that he almost gagged.

"Neville! Did _you_ do that?" gasped Merry in astonishment. The hobbit's eyes were glued to the bulging mounds straining at Saruman's robes.

"No," said the horrified wizard. "What kind of a monster do you think I am? Was it you, Molly, back at Fangorn? You never told us about that."

But Molly had broken the spell of shock which gripped the riders and was shaking with mirth, her Cleansweep bobbing violently beneath her.

"No!" she gasped, wiping at her eyes. "Still, at least it explains some of his actions lately."

"It does?" enquired Éomer, unable to tear his eyes from a seething Saruman's impressive curves.

"Of course it does, dear! Just look at him: off colour, moody, irritable. It can only be one thing: he's suffering from his monthly malady!"

A huge roar of laughter swept the Rohirrim as the implication of her words sank in.

"Aagh, Molly! You'll be the death of me!" chortled Neville, whose body was rocking with laughter. "Sarumanna, the pre-menstrual Maia!"

Pippin (who didn't exactly recognise the phrase 'pre-menstrual', but got the general gist) exploded into fresh gales of laughter and almost slipped off Fæleu's back. Only Neville's quick left hand clutching at the scruff of his cloak saved him from crashing into the muddy pool at the horse's hooves.

The pre-menstrual Maia was not laughing. Neville's comment had been so loud that he'd heard it, and, unlike Pippin, he had understood it perfectly. The furious wizard's green countenance was flushed almost purple with shame as blood rushed to his face, his sunshine yellow locks caught in the afternoon breeze and flew wildly about his head and shoulders while he glowered hatefully at the teenager.

"Ah, Master Wizard!" chortled Gimli, grinning up at the furious Istar. "With the exception of the Lady Molly, you are the fairest maiden in all Orthanc!"

More booming laughter from the crowd. Saruman was almost olive with anger. Snorts and chuckles ran rife through the company as everyone gave in to their mirth and released the tension which the evil wizard had spent the last half hour trying to create. But Saruman was not finished yet. His face was livid, twisted with rage, his gaze was fixed upon the cause of his new humiliation and a red light was kindled in his eyes.

"So, boy, you seek to play me for a fool in front of lesser beings? You and your foul mistress would mock me before those that should bow at my feet? Very well. Laugh now, while you can, but I will say this for my part: your time in Middle Earth will not always be so merry. Even if I fall to the wrath of your rag-tag company, agony awaits you yet! Not for much longer will the name of Longbottom blight this Middle Earth."

"Is that supposed to worry me?" scoffed Neville, urging his horse forward to give Saruman a clear shot.

Oh. Perhaps that wasn't a good idea, actually. Pippin was sitting right in front of him …

"You'll have to get past me first, before you so much as touch a hair on his head!" snapped Molly, shoving the teenager and his hobbit traveller out the way and brandishing her wand at the newly smug wizard.

"Why, Lady," cackled Saruman. "I need do no such thing. If I never lay so much as a finger on him, or never cast a dark spell in his path, if I came down to him now and begged forgiveness for the 'crime' of aiding those I once named as friends to a glory I see now that they do not deserve - still he would suffer. For he is not the only …"

"Enough!" barked Gandalf from the top of the stairs. His ire was so sudden that several people jumped. Neville glanced over at him in surprise. Why the ruddy heck had he cut the git off just when he was about to divulge details of his supposed doom? But Gandalf did not so much as look at him. Aragorn's eyes, however, flickered towards Neville briefly, and the ranger held up a hand as if to caution the teenager not to speak further while Gandalf continued.

"There shall be no more threats and no more falsehoods, Saruman. You have shown more true colours this day than those you wear on your flesh. You have been unmasked as a deceiver and corrupter. But no more! Your treachery is known to all who stand before you. But do not fear: I have no wish to kill you. I offer you one last chance for freedom, but it will come at a price: you may leave this tower, and Isengard, this very day, go wherever you may - even to Mordor, if you desire. If your master will have you after you tried to trick him. But you will first surrender to me the Key of Orthanc, and your staff."

"Surrender my staff? To you? You are a fool if you think me so witless. And twice a fool if you think I cannot see why you attempt the distraction!" snarled Saruman. The wizard grasped his heavy black staff with one hand, and the balcony railing with the other as his eyes raked his fellow Maia's countenance. A smile played over his lips and he hissed his next words. "The boy does not know, does he? He has no idea what has occurred, but, somehow, you do!"

Confusion clouded Neville's mind. What in Merlin's name was the daft git talking about? What didn't he know that Gandalf did?

Daft question, really. Gandalf was a hell of a lot older than him. He had probably forgotten more than Neville would ever know. Still …

Neville swivelled his head from the balcony to look at Gandalf again, seeking some sort of assurance from the kindly Maia that Saruman was just a raving loony. But the other wizard still refused to meet his eyes. Which was strange. Why was he doing that?

"And," continued Saruman in evil delight, "you have not yet told him, have you?"

"Gandalf, what's he talking about?" asked Neville, slightly irked that the White Wizard was ignoring him.

"Pay him no heed, young Wizard. He seeks only to divert us from his final fate."

"Diversion, indeed! Do not let him fool you, young Wizard. I am not the one here who seeks to divert. I am not the one who lies to you with silence. Is that not so, Gandalf?"

Neville was torn between demanding that Gandalf tell him what the ruddy heck Saruman was talking about, and not giving the evil wizard the satisfaction of reacting any further to his taunts. But Gandalf suddenly turned on the steps and locked eyes with him.

"Do you trust me, Neville Longbottom?" he asked gruffly.

For many long seconds, Neville stared into his deep grey eyes. He saw the endless pools of wisdom and decency there that reminded him of another Wizard in another world - one who had also died, but would never return - and his mind was made up. Of course he trusted him. Gandalf was no more likely to lie to him than Professor Dumbledore would. Finally, he nodded.

"Yeah. I trust you, sir."

Gandalf's answering smile was brief, but full of warmth. "You will not regret it, my young friend." With that, the stately Maia returned his gaze to the balcony, raised his hand, and spoke slowly in a clear cold voice. "Saruman, your staff is broken."

There was a crack and the staff in Saruman's hand split in two. The head of it fell down at Gandalf's feet. The doors behind the former Maia flew open and Gandalf shouted, "Go!"

With a cry Saruman fell back and crawled away.

But at that moment, a heavy shining sphere came hurtling down from above. It glanced off the iron rail even as Saruman left it and ricocheted downwards.

Straight towards Gandalf's head.

Before he could think about what he was doing, Neville flicked his wand and cried out, "_Accio_ sphere!"

The ball changed course and headed straight for him.

Uh, oh.

"Pippin, duck!"

Neville gulped audibly and held up his arms as his little friend did his bidding, desperately hoping he would catch the object before it took his own head from his shoulders. Why the ruddy heck hadn't he just blasted the stupid thing to bits? But it was too late for recriminations. Too late to heed Gandalf's cry of warning. Too late to stop it, duck down over Pippin, and hope the bloke behind him had the sense to do the same. All he could do now was raise his hands to catch it before it did any damage.

Which is exactly what he did.

The sphere sailed into his outstretched hands, and he gripped it with all the fierce determination of a Gryffindor goalkeeper during a Quidditch match. The momentum of the catch almost knocked him backwards off Fæleu, but with his feet anchored firmly in the stirrups, he managed to retain his balance and pull himself back into a sitting position. With a victorious shout (and feeling rather like Ron 'the King' Weasley) he dropped his arms and the black sphere followed suit until it was resting innocently on his thigh.

"What is it, Neville?" asked Pippin curiously, who had raised himself from his crouch, and was now turning about in the saddle to stare keenly at the strange object.

"No idea," replied the young wizard, gazing at the black sphere. It was so polished, so perfectly shiny, that he could see his own reflection.

"Do not look into its depths!" commanded Gandalf urgently from the steps.

But it was too late.

Both Neville's and Pippin's eyes were now fixed upon the faint glow that stirred within the heart of the sphere. Pippin's smaller hands snaked out to grasp at the globe, too, but Neville hardly noticed. He couldn't tear his eyes from it. Everything around him faded, even Pippin, and all he could see was the fire inside the orb. Somehow, he knew that he should look away. Something inside his head whispered urgently for him to drop the thing that burned - or was it a voice outside his head that commanded it? - but he couldn't. It felt like his fingers were glued to the glowing ball. The fire within grew, and began to spin. Faster and faster it revolved, dragging his gaze with it, making his head spin in turn, and his stomach roil violently. He gasped and struggled. More voices joined the whisper in his head, and soon it was a booming chorus of shouts, yells, and protests.

But still he couldn't tear his gaze, or his hands, from the perfect, polished sphere. Closer and closer he bent over the globe, his lips moving soundlessly. Time itself stood still while he swam in the depths of oblivion. Seconds passed. Maybe minutes. No, hours, days, surely! Fire burned in his brain and a voice, thin at first, then strong, vibrant … malevolent … consumed his thoughts. Finally, with a strangled cry, both he and Pippin keeled to the side, then followed the black sphere inexorably downwards as it slipped from their grasp and toppled to the ground …

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Author's Note_: Some dialogue (well, quite a bit actually) taken from LoTR, The Two Towers, Book Three, Chapters 8, 9, 10 and 11.

Sorry (again) about the delay. This was another tough chapter. There was so much to write about, that I had trouble putting it together. But it's done now (for good or ill). I hope you had a good Christmas and a Happy New Year.

Next: Augusta runs into trouble in Gondor (just for a change).

Kara's Aunty :)


	26. Repercussions

**Disclaimer:**Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. and Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

**Credit: **www dot wikipedia dot org and www dot Tuckborough dot net, Pink Floyd's 'We Don't Need No Education'/Another Brick in the Wall II (Chorus only - you'll understand this further into the chapter).

**Note: **Well, this is sheer coincidence, but it so happens that I'm posting this chapter exactly one year after I posted the first! Holy Creamola foam! It's my baby's first birthday! (Wanders off into paroxysms of 'cootchie coo's' & Happy Birthday, my wee pet' ...)

**Please review - it really _is_ my only reward.**

**Not Quite A Maia**

**Chapter 26**

* * *

_Isengard _

_Third Age 5th__ March 3019_

Neville and Pippin never even hit the ground. Within one minute of the Palantír falling from their grasp, Gandalf had caught Pippin mid-tumble, Molly had snared Neville with a Levitation charm, and both youths were lying across the rock where the two hobbits had been lounging a couple of hours earlier.

"What's wrong with them?" demanded Molly of Gandalf, trying to rouse Neville with a few (not-so-gentle) slaps to his cheek. Pippin was already showing signs of consciousness: the curly-haired hobbit's lip trembled and his eyes, which, like Neville's, had been staring glassily up at the sky, flickered. His little hands struck out as if batting something away from his face.

"Gandalf? Will you not tell us what devilry goes forth here?" growled Gimli, edging his way past a tall Rohirrim soldier to gaze anxiously at his young friends. Legolas laid a hand on his shoulder to calm the dwarf, who had drawn his axe and was worrying it with a meaty finger (having no visible enemy to sink it in to).

But Gandalf was too busy kneeling over Pippin to answer either witch or dwarf. The old wizard's face looked haggard and drawn. "What mischief have they done to all of us?" he muttered, bending over the hobbit's head and laying a hand on his brow.

"Now wait just one minute!" cried Molly, eyes blazing. She was outraged at the suggestion that either of her young charges had done any 'mischief' to anyone. "They didn't do anything wrong! In fact, if it wasn't for Neville, that globe would have struck you on the head - and then where would we be?"

Aragorn stepped forward until he drew level with her. "Peace, my Lady. Gandalf meant no slight, of that I am certain. And he is no doubt grateful for the service that young Neville rendered him. But you must understand that this is no ordinary globe."

The ranger gestured at the cloak-wrapped bundle he cradled in his left arm.

"Aragorn is quite correct, Molly," said Gandalf, pausing in his ministrations of Pippin to reassure her. "The 'globe' as you call it, is a Palantír, a Seeing Stone. It is, I suspect, the method by which Saruman was able to communicate so effectively with Mordor's master."

Molly frowned. "What, you mean like a Muggle telly-fone?"

Having no idea what that was, Gandalf shrugged. "If this 'telly-fone' allows two people to see and speak with each other over vast distances, then yes. Sauron has a Palantír in Barad-dúr also, and together he and Saruman must have used them to coordinate their various attacks on the cities of Middle Earth. I doubt that Grima could have foreseen how evil the consequences were in throwing this particular object at me, for it may very well do us more damage than the mere cracking of my head, now that Sauron has had access to the sight of a Hobbit and a Wizard-boy."

With that said, his eyes fastened on Aragorn's. "Dúnadan, use your gift to aid young Neville."

The ranger nodded and, leaving an almost frantic Molly in the capable hands (very firm grip) of Éomer, approached the prone teenager and laid his free hand on Neville's damp brow.

Satisfied, Gandalf resumed his task of tending to Pippin. Covering the small forehead with his large hand, he concentrated on penetrating the mists of his little friend's consciousness. Deeper, deeper into Pippin's thoughts he forced himself until, soon, the hobbit began to shudder. Suddenly, Pippin sat bolt upright and cried out in a shrill, toneless voice.

"It is not for you, Saruman! I will send for it at once. Do you understand? Say just that! Wait … you are not Saruman. Declare yourself! Reveal your name or face the wrath of Sauron!"

"Peregrin Took! Come back!" commanded Gandalf in a loud voice.

The hobbit relaxed and fell back, his green eyes clearing and focusing on Gandalf as he clung to the wizard's hand.

"Gandalf!" he cried. "Gandalf, forgive me!"

The hobbit's face was so full of remorse and fright that Gandalf didn't have the heart to berate him (which was a good thing, too: Molly, he noticed, was a heartbeat away from whipping her staff out to curse him if he dared). He took a deep breath and spoke evenly. "Tell me what you saw."

"I saw things that frightened me," stammered Pippin. Merry, who was being restrained by Théoden, broke free and rushed to clamber on the rock to comfort his cousin. Pippin smiled at him bravely and continued. "I wanted to let go, but I couldn't. And then he came and questioned me; and he looked at me, and, and that is all I remember."

Pippin averted his gaze and Gandalf knew he was hiding something. Fool of a Took! This was not the time for secrets! He was about to bark at the youth, to demand he tell him exactly what he saw, when a very feminine cough gave him pause. He let his gaze flicker to Molly (who had clenched her jaw and was glaring hot coals at him), and decided to take another (very) deep breath instead.

"Come," he addressed the hobbit once more (as patiently as possible), "you are among friends now, Peregrin Took. You need know no fear in our company. But it is of vital import that you tell me exactly what you saw and said."

"Go on, dear," Molly encouraged. "I'll make sure nothing happens to you."

The witch's words seemed to help Pippin decide. He shut his eyes and shivered, still clutching at Gandalf's hand. In a low hesitating voice, he began again, and slowly his words became clearer and stronger.

"I saw a dark sky and tall battlements," he said. "And tiny stars. It seemed very far away and long ago, yet hard and clear. Then the stars went in and out - they were cut off by things with wings. Very big, I think, really; but in the glass they looked like bats wheeling round the tower. I thought there were eight of them. One began to fly straight towards me, getting bigger and bigger. It had a horrible - no, no, I can't say."

Gandalf and the assembled crowd watched the hobbit in silence. The only sounds were the soft mumblings of Aragorn as he continued his ministrations on Neville (and the frequent anxious 'oh, dear's!' from Molly).

"I tried to get away, because I thought it would fly out; but when it had covered all the globe, it disappeared. Then _he_ came. He did not speak so that I could hear words. He just looked, and I understood:

'So you have come back so soon? Have you news to report of the foreign Istari?'

"I did not answer. He said 'Who are you?' I still did not answer, but it hurt me horribly; and he pressed me, so I said: 'A Hobbit.'

"Then suddenly he seemed to see me, and he laughed at me. It was cruel. It was like being stabbed with knives. I struggled. But he said: 'Wait a moment! We shall meet again soon. Tell Saruman that this dainty is not for him. I will send for it at once. Do you understand? Say just that!' And then …"

Pippin broke off, and Gandalf followed his eyes as they settled on the still-prone form of Neville. The hobbit emitted a soft sob, and it was this, more than anything else, which alarmed the White Wizard. Reaching out, he grabbed Pippin's chin and forced the hobbit to look at him.

"Tell me what happened next."

The hobbit gulped, and Merry shuffled closer to him to put an arm around his shoulders. "It's all right, Pip. You're safe now. Neville's safe. Just tell us what happened after Sauron spoke to you."

With his gaze still fixed on Gandalf, Pippin relented. "Okay. Well, it was after he spoke with me that we both noticed there was someone else there. I had been too afraid at the time to realise Neville was behind me, or beside me, I think. Oh, I don't know exactly where he was, but he was _there_. And when Sauron saw him, he said: 'Saruman? Wait … you are not Saruman. Declare yourself! Reveal your name or face the wrath of Sauron!' And then Neville spoke. He said: 'Crikey, your eye's really inflamed. You could do with a Healer.'"

Despite the gravity of the situation, Gandalf had to fight to stifle a smile. Merry, however sniggered, which gave Pippin heart.

"Sauron wasn't very happy. He hissed at him, then said: 'So you are the Wizard-boy Saruman seeks. And he has found you, it would seem.' Neville said he didn't know what Sauron was talking about, that he was no Wizard. After that, Sauron shouted at Neville a lot, but I don't know what he said because the sound of it was so terrible that I fell into a faint. I'm sorry!"

The White Wizard held the trembling hobbit's gaze for a minute more in silence. Then his face grew gentler, and the shadow of a smile appeared. He laid his hand softly on Pippin's head.

"All right! Say no more! You have taken no harm. There is no lie in your eyes, as I feared …"

Merry and Molly scowled at him. Gandalf ignored them.

"… He did not speak long with you, and that is good. A fool you may be for ignoring my warning not to look into the sphere, but an honest fool you remain, Peregrin Took. Wiser ones might have done worse in such a pass. Now, let us see if the same can be said for our young friend, Neville Longbottom."

With a final comforting ruffle of Pippin's curly hair, he stepped across the hobbit's legs and crouched beside the silent boy. Neville's eyes, which had closed at some point while he was seeing to Pippin, were already beginning to flicker. Aragorn continued to bend over him whispering elvish words. The company's attention transferred from Pippin to the teenager as, finally, Neville returned to consciousness.

"Neville!" cried Molly, elbowing Aragorn out the way to grab the boy and envelop him in a hug.

"Molly?" mumbled Neville (through a mouthful of tweed). "What happened?"

"Oh, Neville! You and Pippin gave us all such a fright!" said the red-haired witch, gripping his face in her hands and twisting it left, then right, to make sure it had not incurred any hurts. She brushed the hair from his face with a hand, and he blushed at her fussing.

Slightly impatient with her fussing (but not daring to show it), Gandalf coughed politely to draw the youth's attention. Neville's brown eyes landed on him and stayed there while Gandalf spoke.

"I shall tell you exactly what happened. You drew the Palantír of Orthanc from its intended target of my head."

"The Pal of Orthanc?"

"Palantír," supplied Molly, squeezing his shoulder affectionately. "The magical black sphere that Grimworm threw out the window. It put you and Pippin into a sort of a trance."

"Ah. The orb-thing. That's right. It was falling and I Summoned it," said Neville, a look of comprehension dawning on his scarred face. It was quickly replaced by confusion. "I didn't know it was magical, or dangerous … until it was too late, of course."

"Neville, listen to me carefully," urged Gandalf, capturing the boy's attention once more. "The Palantír is a Seeing Stone which Saruman used to communicate with Sauron …"

"Sort of like a Muggle telly-fone," added Molly helpfully.

Gandalf suppressed a sigh. "Quite. As I was saying, it is a direct link to Mordor …"

"That explains the spooky castle, then," mused Neville, as a shiver ran the length of his spine.

"Indeed. Your mind was open to Sauron when you looked into it. I need not tell you how dangerous this was to both you and to the people of the West. We know already what occurred between Pippin and Sauron, but it is urgent that you tell us what happened after the Dark Lord discovered your presence. Can you remember?"

Neville nodded. "Yeah. Yes, I can. I heard him speaking with someone, but I didn't know it was Pippin at first. Couldn't see a thing because of those dragon-bird things the Nazgûl are so fond of. They were flying all over the place. But when they finally disappeared, I became aware of him. Is he all right? Only, I couldn't use my wand to help him - it sort of stayed stuck in my pocket. He looked terrified, though. Sauron didn't hurt him did he?"

"Pippin is well, you may speak with him shortly," said Gandalf gruffly. "But first, tell us more of what Sauron said to you - and what you said to him. Please be precise, for it is very important that we know exactly what passed between you."

Was it just his imagination, or had the boy flushed? And why was he suddenly pre-occupied with the hem of his bizarrely-striped jumper?

A twinge of unease crept through Gandalf as he wondered what Neville's reaction could mean. But, as he had with Pippin, he caught Neville's chin and forced him to look into his eyes.

"It is imperative that you tell us all, no matter the cost. We shall not judge you until after you have finished."

Brown eyes widened and a sheepish grin flashed across the youth's face. "You want to hear _absolutely_ everything?"

"Aye, lad! That is what he said, is it not?" barked Gimli impatiently. "Mahal's beard, but this suspense will be the end of me!"

"Let Neville speak in his own good time, Master Dwarf," chided Aragorn.

Gimli huffed. "As long as his own good time is soon, very well."

"You may begin your tale from the point after you recommended a Healer to the Dark Lord Sauron," said Gandalf to Neville (Merry sniggered again).

"Oh, you know about that?" said Neville, turning redder. "Okay. Well, he was a bit annoyed about that. He started shouting - wasn't half loud. He demanded that I tell him who I was. But it didn't seem like a good idea for me to tell him, you know? I didn't want him to know I was allied with his enemies in case he realised we had overthrown Saruman. So … so, I lied. Told him I was someone else."

He broke off and gave another sheepish smile.

"And?" said Gandalf, trying not to sound impatient.

"Well, I have this Muggle-born friend back home, see? Dean Thomas. He was raised by his non-magical mother and grew up in the Muggle world, before he found out he was a wizard ..."

Yes, yes. Very interesting. Get on with it.

"… and he's always talking about West Ham Utd, and all the things he does in the Muggle world. I don't understand most of it, but it's interesting. Especially when he talks about the cinema. I quite fancy going there, one day, to see what all the fuss is about. Anyway, Dean's a massive Star Wars fan."

Wars in the stars? United pork of the West? What in Varda's name was the boy talking about? And what did it have to do with Sauron?

"So, I sort of told Sauron that I was Luke Skywalker."

"_Who_?" demanded Gandalf, puzzled. Neville was still wearing his stupid grin.

"Luke Skywalker; a Jedi Knight who fights the evil Emperor that's trying to take over the universe."

Oh. Well, that cleared everything up ...

Giving his head a brisk shake, Gandalf refocused. "And?"

"Well, Sauron didn't have a clue who that was …"

Gandalf was not surprised.

"… and he demanded to know what I wanted, so I told him that I was searching for my father, Captain Kirk. Though, come to think of it, I'm not actually sure Captain Kirk _is _Luke's father. That might be a character from another film Dean likes. Not that it matters. Sauron doesn't know any better. Anyway, the Dark Lord thought Kirk was a captain in Rohan's army, and told me that he would be dead soon, if he had his way, and that I would be dead, too, if I didn't tell him where Saruman was. So I told him that Saruman couldn't talk to him just then because he was getting measured for his first bra …"

Molly broke into a fit of giggles, as did a few others, when Neville indicated a bosom-supporting device with his hands.

"… but that seemed to annoy him even more. He started shouting really loud. I thought my head was going to explode like a Halloween pumpkin. It was a bit scary, actually. He tried to make me reveal my thoughts …"

All laughter died instantly and Gandalf turned ashen. If Sauron had read the boy's thoughts, he would know about Frodo and the Ring …

"Did he succeed?" he barked urgently, catching the youth's shoulders in a vice-like grip. "Did Sauron question you at his leisure?"

"Yes."

The small crowd gasped in unison, and Gandalf knew a moment of horror. Had the boy revealed everything? Was Middle Earth now doomed to fall? Would Frodo and Samwise soon be the objects of an Arda-wide hobbithunt?

Neville must have realised what he was thinking for the youth hastened to add: "Don't worry. I never told him anything about You-Know-What. He asked why I was in Orthanc if I was looking for 'kin', as I claimed. I said that Saruman was an old friend of the family and he invited me to stop over on my way through Isengard. Then he demanded to speak with Saruman again to confirm this, and I told him that he was busy getting measured for a pair of French knickers to match his learner bra. I can't tell you how peeved he was. He started screaming about vanity, and how it would be Saruman's downfall. I agreed. Then he wanted to know where I came from, and I said 'somewhere over the rainbow' - that's a lullaby Dean's mother sang to him as a baby. He sometimes sings it in his sleep, he gets right embarrassed about it when we tease him. Who'd've thought it would ever come in useful here?

"Anyway, Sauron thought I was being evasive, and he was right, wasn't he? Said if I was passing through Isengard, it meant I was heading in his direction, and why would anyone willingly go anywhere near Mordor in a time of war? Was it really just to look for their father? I reminded him that dear old Dad was a captain in Rohan's army, and he said I was a liar - that if I had brown hair, my dad probably did, too, and there was no such thing as a brunette Rohirrim. I couldn't respond to that, because he has a point, and then he accused me of being a spy who was gathering intelligence for the West. He said he would make me tell him the truth and started chanting in some funny language. I think it was supposed to make me tell him exactly what he wanted to hear."

A horrible sinking feeling took hold of Gandalf and he closed his eyes in dread.

"But it didn't work. Don't know why. Maybe our magics clashed, or something."

A blissful wave of relief chased the sinking feeling way.

"That may be true. I, too, had some difficulty penetrating your mind when I attempted to rouse you," commented Aragorn.

"Yet still you succeeded," murmured Gandalf, his eyes snapping open. "Though that may have more to do with your physical proximity to Neville at the time. Perhaps our young friend's mind, and that of Molly's, are more difficult to penetrate because of their brand of magic, and we may take some comfort from that at present. Their magics may indeed clash with that of mine or Sauron to a degree, but do not be fooled for long: if Neville or Molly were ever to fall into Sauron's clutches, he would soon find a way to overcome this. Now, Neville, what happened after that?"

The youth took a deep breath. "Well, I called his bluff."

Gandalf's forehead crinkled. "Indeed? How?"

"I pretended his magic had worked, and told him he was right: that I wasn't looking for my father. I said I wasn't spying for the West, either, but that I planned to destroy it on my way through to him, and that I'd kick his arse too, when I reached Mordor."

"You said _what_?" exclaimed Gandalf (and Aragorn, and Théoden, _and_ Legolas …).

"Oh, couldn't you have said 'posterior', dear?" chided Molly. "Or even 'backside'? I mean, what have I told you about your language?"

Neville grinned - actually _grinned_ - and the White Wizard had a sudden urge to shake him senseless. This was hardly the time for humour …

"I confessed that I wasn't Luke Skywalker after all, but Darth Dumbledore, Dark Lord of the United Federation of Planets, and that my Star Destroyer - the starship Enterprise - was parked outside and ready to whisk me and five thousand of my most loyal storm troopers over to Mordor within a week or two. He laughed. Ruddy horrible it was, too. Said there was only one Dark Lord in Arda and that it was 'no mere child', and that it would take more than five thousand soldiers on a boat to topple him. The git actually thinks a starship is a boat! Anyway, I told him he was talking rubbish. Said I was Emperor of the planet Mars, and that my mate, Saruman, had told me that I might want to add Middle Earth to my collection of conquered worlds. As long as Saruman got to be second-in-command in my absence, of course. I told him that Saruman told me Gondor would make a nice holiday resort, though I might want to think about flattening Mordor because it was an eyesore. 'Eyesore' - get it? Then Sauron said Saruman would pay for his treachery, and that I would perish in the dungeons of Barad-dúr at his own hand for my impertinence. I may have mentioned that that would be rather difficult for him, seeing as how he _has_ no hands. Naturally, he screamed again. So did I - my ruddy head was killing me. After that, Sauron kept badgering me to tell him my 'petty plans' for world domination. I told him not to be daft. I was hardly likely to spill them to one of the gits I was about to wipe off the face of the earth. But he kept going on and on, yelling and shouting, so I had to resort to diversional therapy. Which was when I started to recite the DA song over and over. Course, I didn't sing it, 'cos my head was killing me …"

"Thank Mahal for that," mumbled Gimli gratefully.

Neville scowled at the dwarf "… so, you see, he never learned a thing about anything important."

"Are you certain?" demanded Gandalf urgently.

The boy nodded.

"And what is this 'DA song'?" asked Gandalf, anxious to know every last detail (in case the boy had been singing a song about the Dark Lord's imminent fall at the hands of 'Dashing Aragorn'). That would have told Sauron just about everything he needed to know …

"You want to hear the DA song?" asked Neville incredulously.

"Yes."

"So do I," said a curious Molly. "I never knew about that."

"Oh. Well, if you insist."

"We do, young Neville. _Now_, please. It may be important."

The boy looked doubtful, but shrugged.

"Okay. Here goes:

.

_You can shove your education_

_Up your huge Death Eater nose_

_It doesn't matter if you curse us_

_How great the threat is that you pose_

_Death! Eater! You're the bigger fool_

_._

_We're the unofficial_

_soldiers here in this school_

_._

_Dumbledore's Army is_

_here to break every rule!_

_._

_We won't bow down to your Master_

_We'll never bend and scrape to you_

_You might as well sod off and die now_

_Before you learn what we can do_

_Death! Eater! We are the DA_

_._

_And for every kid you_

_cursed we will make you pay_

_._

_Dumbledore's Army is_

_here and here it will stay …_"

.

"Enough," instructed Gandalf, holding up a hand. "I believe we have the general gist. So, it is a song from your own world. Good. Then you said nothing of Rohan's victory over Isengard? Or of our quest?"

"I told you: I just kept repeating that stupid song. He was ruddy livid. Course that might be because I amended some of the lyrics to include him. You know: _Your black castle's a disaster; Your Nazgûl are bonkers too; There's something nasty in your Eye mate; Oh, right, I see, that's only you _…"

A wave of laughter swept the riders, and, such was his relief that the boy had not revealed vital information, that Gandalf joined in.

"If Sauron understood half as much of what you told him as I do, then he will have very little idea of what you were talking about! I know little of starry ships, or Emperors of lands foreign to Middle Earth!" He eyed the boy who, despite his brave (and rather outrageous) tale, was still pale and shaken. "Yet, perhaps your fantastical claims have done us some good."

Neville's brows rose in surprise. "Really?"

Nodding, Gandalf pulled out his (ever-present) pipe and stuffed it with tobacco. He sat next to Neville, cross-legged, lit it, and took a thoughtful puff.

"Yes, really. For in those few minutes, you have alerted him to a new, if entirely fictional, threat to his dominion. I do not know if he would have believed you were not the young Wizard Saruman told him of, but, then again, he now believes Saruman to be a traitor in collusion with you to plot against him, so it matters little. If he does believe you a Wizard, he will assume that there are now two Maia working against him. If not, then you are still a dangerous enemy, working together with Saruman to plot his downfall. Either way, he has no idea that Rohan has not fallen, and that Isengard has. For all he knows, whatever Saruman told him about you or Molly at an earlier time may now appear to have been little more than a lie, meant for no other purpose than to distract him while this 'Darth Dumbledore' moved his storming soldiers towards Mordor. _If _he believes that such a thing is true. However, the number of troops you mentioned was …"

He paused to smile at the young wizard, then the watching crowd.

"… most helpful. Had you claimed to have significantly more, he would have seen through your lie, for he has enough spies not to have missed such a number. But a mere five thousand? Five thousand is not a very great force, but it will still be enough to give him pause. It is small enough to have escaped his notice, but large enough to pose a threat, if used strategically. He will wonder from whence it will attack: perhaps from the more northerly stretches of the Anduin, which would be nearer to Isengard and therefore make more sense, given your location; or south of it, sailing up from the Bay of Belfalas on your, or Saruman's, instruction."

Aragorn nodded. "That would make sense. But do you also realise what this means for Gondor?"

Neville shook his head, but Gandalf nodded and, with a chuckle, replied: "It means that he will now send troops, which he intended for the onslaught of the White City, on a fruitless quest for a non-existent fleet up and down the length of the Anduin, based solely on the word of a seventeen year old boy!"

"Why, Neville! That was very clever of you!" exclaimed Molly.

"It was? Er, thanks. It wasn't on purpose, though. I didn't think he'd actually believe me. I just wanted to convince him that I wasn't an ally of the West."

"You have done more than that, whether you meant to or nay," said Gandalf, clapping him heartily on the back. "Sauron may have spotted your first lie, but we are fortunate that your magic and his were not of an accord from this distance, and fortunate also that he is arrogant enough to believe than none can withstand his dark arts. He does not realise that his Black Speech had no effect on you, and that you continued to weave a web of deception under his very nose …"

"Or eye," added the boy with a shaky laugh. Gandalf chuckled.

"Indeed. Or _eye_. And now, he frets over a threat unseen to his plans. It will force him to divide his troops. He will have to split his Corsair forces, sending many farther north up the Anduin than he no doubt intended to, and he will more than likely despatch a battalion of his eastern troops to support them. Their collective number may not be great enough to make a huge difference to the force that attacks Gondor, but it will be enough to be getting on with. And even if - _when_ - they find no sign of these mysterious starry ships, the battle in Minas Tirith may well be decided before they can return to aid their comrades - assuming that we are victorious, of course."

"We have the aid of two Wizards and a Witch! And an enchanted Dwarven axe! We shall certainly be victorious!" exclaimed Gimli, beaming at his friends.

"I think it may take more than an old man, a brave youth, a woman, and an axe to defeat the might of Mordor, regardless of how magical they be," said Gandalf sensibly. As much as he hated to put a dampener on the dwarf's good spirits, it was important he realised that the odds were still stacked against them. "Sauron is powerful, and his armies consist of more than Orcs or Uruk-hai. He will have the support of his lieutenants in both Harad and Rhûn, and all the men they can muster. And do not forget the remaining Nazgûl, or whatever other horrors he may be hiding that we know nothing of. Nay, our work lies yet before us."

Suddenly, Théoden stepped forward and cleared his throat. "Then let us even the odds a little. If Gondor's peril is so great, then I would offer the services of Rohan to aid her. The Oath of Eorl shall not be forsaken by me!"

Éomer drew his shoulders back and stood tall, nodding in approval of his uncle's decision. The remaining Rohirrim cheered heartily.

Aragorn, who was standing at the other side of the rock, ate up the distance between them with three long strides and clasped the King of Rohan by the arm.

"I thank you, my friend!" he said warmly, smiling broadly at Théoden.

Théoden returned the smile and the arm clasp. "You need not thank me, son of Arathorn. It is the very least I can do after you brought aid unlooked for to my own people. Now, if you will excuse me for a few moments, I must deliberate with my captains and take stock of what soldiers we have and where they are. They must be gathered to us as soon as possible, that we may provide sufficient force to be reckoned with against Sauron's army in Gondor!"

With that, the King and his men departed to discuss numbers and weaponry, leaving only Fellowship members behind.

It was a very satisfactory moment, in Gandalf's opinion, for Théoden's selfless offer meant that Aragorn would no longer need to make the request himself; something which he had been unhappy about - albeit determined to do - considering that the Rohirrim had recently tasted the ravages of battle.

However, his satisfaction waned as he recalled that Sauron still believed Pippin was being held at Isengard. He twisted his head to stare at the curly-haired hobbit.

"There is another important fact we must deal with, before we make any plans for battle in Gondor," he muttered, chewing on the stem of his pipe.

Pippin's eyebrows shot up.

"Why are you looking at me like that, Gandalf?" the young Took asked apprehensively.

"Because, you young rascal, you are the fact in question."

"I am?"

"He is?" echoed Merry, looking equally puzzled.

"Certainly. Whether or nay Sauron believes Saruman has betrayed him, or seeks to steal his throne with the aid of …"

He threw a ironic glance at Neville.

"… Darth Dumbledore …"

The boy flushed, and Gandalf returned his gaze to Pippin.

"… he still knows you are at Orthanc. A _Hobbit_, being held at Orthanc. Where his mind is not diverted by fictional foes, it will be consumed by thoughts of you. He believes Saruman may hold the very Hobbit that holds the Ring. His dark mind will be filled now with your voice and face, his expectations will be great. But, alas for him! Saruman now appears to be his enemy. It will make the matter of recovering you more difficult, but it will not deter him in the attempt."

Pippin paled considerably. "Re … recover me?"

"Of course. You do not think he would leave a prize as great as you in the hands of an enemy? And a Wizard, no less? For even if he discovered that you did not hold the Ring, it would still be too dangerous to leave you in Orthanc. He will not want you passing information of its whereabouts on to Saruman, especially now. The Ring is _his_, and his alone. If he thinks there a danger of it falling into Saruman's hands before his own … Well, he will not take the chance. Even as we speak, he will be despatching his servants abroad to recover you - by force, if necessary."

"Well, we'll just have to drive them off then, won't we?" declared Molly, leaning over Neville to stroke Pippin's head in comfort. "Don't worry, dear. We won't let them touch you. Don't you remember how we drove them off when we were travelling down the Anduin?"

"With your glowing Potato-thing?"

Neville snorted. "_Patronus_."

"Oh, that's right. Patronus."

Gandalf had no idea what a Patronus was, but unless it was the magical sword Neville had used to slay Sauron's Black Rider with over a week ago, it would not prove a major deterrent for very long. What was more, if Sauron was angry enough (which he would be - one did not double-cross a Dark Lord without repercussions), he might send more than a single Black Rider, and even Neville's sword couldn't take care of more than that at any one time (unless the Nazgûl lined up one behind the other and told the boy to take his best shot - which would be helpful, but unlikely).

"Nay, forgive me, Molly, but I have to disagree on this occasion. We will need more than magic to solve this problem. What we shall need is _distance_."

"What does that mean?" demanded Merry hotly, having quickly realised what the wizard was aiming at. "You're not taking him away, are you?"

A nod was sufficient to convey that, yes, he was.

"But Merry will be coming too, won't he?" asked Pippin, looking suddenly no older than a hobbit faunt.

"I am sorry, Pippin, but no. Shadowfax will not fly as fast with the burden of three as he shall with two."

"But, Gandalf, where shall we go?"

"To Gondor."

"Gondor? Well, I suppose we'll all end up there at some point anyway, but, oh! It's so unfair! Why can't Merry come, too? And what will he do without me? But he _could_ still come! Neville or Molly could make him lighter with one of their spells, couldn't you?"

The hobbit turned to gaze imploringly at the visiting Istari, but Gandalf would have none of it.

"Peregrin Took!" he exclaimed, knocking embers from his pipe a little impatiently. "I have already told you how the matter will proceed. I am sorry if it does not meet with your approval, but we do not have time to argue the point. Merry will manage very well with Aragorn and the others, but you will ride with me."

He pulled himself up and sprang lightly from the rock, his fluid motions belying his great age. With a sharp whistle, he called out to Shadowfax.

"You surely think not to leave so soon, Mithrandir!" said Legolas. "You have not yet rested from your journey from Imladris!"

"Aye. Legolas has the right of it. Why not postpone your journey until the morrow? Fleeter is the foot that has known the comfort of a good night's sleep."

Why could they not see how impossible that was?

"Because if just one of Sauron's Nazgûl is already nearer Orthanc than we guess - and bear in mind that the Dark Lord also uses them to send Saruman tidings from the East, so it is possible - then Pippin's fate is sealed. The Black Riders are already keeping watch for Hobbits on his behalf, or have you forgotten what befell Frodo at Amon Sûl?"

Seven people shook their heads as one.

"And even if it does not yet know that Saruman is now an Enemy, it will not leave Orthanc without recovering its master's prize, no matter who it has to destroy to get him!"

He left Pippin to digest that as Shadowfax drew up to him. With a single bound he mounted the glorious creature, then stretched out a hand towards the gloomy hobbit.

"Come, Pippin. We must make haste away from this place."

It was with reluctance that the hobbit stood and allowed himself to be pulled onto the horse. The youth eyed his cousin miserably. "You won't forget me while I'm gone, will you Mer?"

Merry put on a brave face. "No. in fact, I'll remember you every time I eat your share of the supplies."

"That's not very funny," said Pippin, twisting in his seat to gaze up at Gandalf. "Do you have any food?"

"Trust a Hobbit to think of his stomach at such a time," grumbled the old wizard good-naturedly. "I have lembas enough to see us both to Minas Tirith."

The news was not welcome to his travelling companion. "Oh. Lembas. What a nice change that will be. I haven't had any for at least two whole days," Pippin mumbled disconsolately.

"We could give you something to take with you," offered Neville.

"Ooh, yes," agreed Molly quickly. "What about one of those black puddings that you enjoyed at lunchtime?"

Pippin brightened a little. "Yes, please! And maybe some roast potatoes. And a sausage or two. Do you have any eggs I could boil on the way …"

"The pudding will be enough to be getting along with," muttered Gandalf. "I am not a pack-horse, and neither is Shadowfax."

Molly rolled her eyes, unpacked the pudding (and some apples, eggs (hard-boiled) and a family-sized meat pie, much to Merry's dismay) and a brown paper bag (which fascinated Legolas, having never seen one before). She placed the food inside, tapped it with her short staff and handed it to Pippin, giving Gandalf a look that clearly dared him to object to the extra supplies (he very wisely did not).

"There you go, Pippin. I've put a Featherweight charm on it, so it's very light."

Gandalf harrumphed. That comment was for his benefit, no doubt.

"You can share some of that with Gandalf, if he behaves himself …"

Now the White Wizard was the one doing the glaring.

"… and don't forget to give the horse an apple or two as well."

"Thank you, Molly. If you ever come to Tuckborough, I'll arrange a feast in your honour," said Pippin, tucking the parcel inside his cloak. "That is, if I ever see Tuckborough again. I might get lost in Minas Tirith. Or be swallowed by a dog. The dogs of Men are bound to be bigger than Farmer Maggot's, so it's a possibility. In which case, I bequeath you my finest yellow weskit, which I was saving for my wedding. Not that I'm getting married any time soon. Well, not anymore. How can I if I'm going to be a giant dog's dinner?"

"Don't talk like that, silly Took!" admonished Merry with a teary sniff. "Gandalf will take care of you. Anyway, what dog would want to eat you? You're not very appetising."

"Really? Do you really think so, Mer?" asked Pippin hopefully.

"Of course I do. Why else would Bluebell Fallowmare run away from you, like she did at my birthday party two years ago?"

"That's because you told her I was going to put a worm in her hair, Meriadoc Brandybuck! Not because she thinks I'm unappetising. And you're not funny!"

"If you Hobbits are quite finished saying your goodbyes," drawled Gandalf, half-amused, half-irked by their banter. He turned to the others. "Aragorn, you recall what we spoke about before the parlay?"

The ranger nodded. "All of it."

"Good. I would advise you to wait a day or two for Halbarad and his Men. They should not be far behind me. But I would advise you not to wait here for them, lest our enemies find you first."

"Have no fear, my friend. We shall not tarry here long ere you leave. Pippin, I will keep Merry safe, you have my word on that."

The younger hobbit gave the ranger a wavering smile of gratitude.

"Molly, it has been an honour to meet you. I hope that the next time I do so, it may be under happier circumstances," said Gandalf with a gallant nod at the matronly witch (thinking that any circumstance where she wasn't scowling at him for picking on her charges would be a happy one. Still, at least she hadn't aimed her staff at him. Yet).

Molly smiled warmly, having apparently forgiven him for his earlier harshness. "I'm sure it will be. What a pity you couldn't stay longer. I'd very much have liked to have given that robe of yours a good wash. It's looking a bit grey around the edges. Never mind. I'll have it off you, and scrubbed to within an inch of its life before long, I'm sure."

Gimli and Neville snorted in amusement and Gandalf narrowed his eyes at them. It was clear that they were imagining him in his underwear as he waited patiently for her to finish cleaning his (already pristine) robes. Well, if they thought they could laugh at _this_ wizard without repercussions …

"Legolas?" said Gandalf innocently. The elegant elf raised an eyebrow in question. "You will no doubt have your hands full trying to keep your impulsive Dwarvish friend alive over the next few days. Do not let it be at the expense of your own life. Your company is much more preferable to me than his."

Legolas grinned at Gimli's outraged expression, but before the dwarf could put words to his (fuming) emotions, Gandalf turned to Neville.

"As for you, Neville Longbottom, scourge of Sauron that you are, take care what you summon to yourself in my absence. We may not be as fortunate in the outcome as we were this time."

The boy turned a very unappealing shade of fuchsia.

Satisfied that the chuckling duo had learnt their lesson, he smiled broadly at all his friends and nudged Shadowfax towards the stone archway that would lead him onto Isengard's main courtyard, and give Pippin and himself free passage to the exit.

"Farewell!" he cried to the small group, catching a final glance of Neville's still-red face before he passed under the archway. Laying a hand on Shadowfax's neck, he stilled the noble steed for a moment, loathe to leave the boy thinking he was angry with him. With a smile of silent thanks for his new friend in the Void of Time and Space, he selected a few words that he knew were bound to cheer the boy up.

Or at least astonish him enough to wipe the gloom from his face.

"There is no need for concern, young Neville. I am certain you will continue to do as admirable a job in my absence as you have thus far," he said kindly. "And as a token of my good faith, I offer you four words of good cheer: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!"

Neville's face was blank for a moment, but, slowly, his jaw fell open in amazement. Even Molly looked astonished (which was an added bonus). But instead of waiting for the flurry of eager enquiries and demands his words would provoke, he nudged Shadowfax into motion and sped through the archway before the boy could so much as shout 'Darth Dumbledore!'

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

Some text and dialogue taken from The Lord of the Rings, The Two Towers, Book Three, Chapter 9: The Palantír, and Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, Chapter 7: The Sorting Hat.

_Author's Note_: I _was_ going to write and post an Augusta chapter, but this one really had to be done first to set that one up properly. So, for all you Augusta fans, don't worry: she's definitely up next!

Kara's Aunty :)


	27. A Night on the Town

**Disclaimer:**Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. and Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

**Credit: **www dot wikipedia dot org and www dot Tuckborough dot net.

**Please review - it really _is_ my only reward.**

**Not Quite A Maia**

**Chapter 27**

* * *

_Minas Tirith_

_Third Age 8th__ March 3019_

Mistress Mirwen appeared at Augusta and Glorfindel's sixth-level residence late the next morning with not one, but two finished dresses. It was at this time they discovered that the dresses were a little tight around the midriff (which the elderly witch blamed shamelessly on the kitchen staff - their cuisine had no business tasting _quite_ so superb). The stalwart seamtress remained until well after lunch, unpicking and re-sewing a good deal of her hard work from the evening before. As a result, Glorfindel's plans to escort Augusta around the city had to be delayed and, as a direct result the magnificent elf spent most of the morning admiring the rear gardens (or, rather, eluding the amorous housekeeper: Írildë had already slipped into his room at four o'clock that morning to offer him 'a little homely comfort in a strange land' - wearing nothing more than a flimsy chemise).

It wasn't until they were having lunch (with a very delighted seamstress) that Augusta suggested Glorfindel might want to explore the city by himself for a few hours.

"I just don't know how much longer the amendments to the dresses will take, my good fellow, and I wouldn't want to shock the locals by flashing my knees again. You don't mind, do you?"

Írildë, who was waiting to serve a light dessert, looked crushed at the thought (her future husband had only just surfaced from wherever he had been hiding himself, and now she was to lose sight of him again?), and Glorfindel made a few (very feeble) protests that he would be happy to wait (Írildë brightened hopefully). But Augusta would not hear of it and sent him packing (much to his delight, and Írildë's despair) after the last of the baked cinnamon pears had been polished off by Mistress Mirwen (who had never eaten such a grand meal in her all life).

"But be back in time for dinner, Archibald!" exclaimed Augusta as he bid her farewell from the front door.

"I shall not tarry quite so long without you, Aunt," replied Glorfindel with a (grateful) smile, leaving her to the tender ministrations of Mistress Mirwen.

**XXX**

He was true to his word. An hour before dinner, her (sort of) nephew returned and they spent a pleasant hour in the largest of the reception rooms with a pot of cocoa discussing his travels.

"It all sounds perfectly charming, young man. What a pity the alterations took so long …"

They hadn't. She had spent the better part of the afternoon showing Mistress Mirwen around their magnificent abode and clucking over the unnecessary extravagance of Lady Isilbêth's solid gold bathing tub.

Still, Floor-kindle needn't know that. And perhaps her outing to the city proper needn't be completely lost to her?

And so it was that, just as he was about to wash before the evening meal, Augusta announced her intention to dine out at one of the city's inns to a doubtful Glorfindel.

"Aunt, are certain you wish to dine out this eve?" queried Glorfindel, who had captured the old woman's wrinkly hand and laid it elegantly on his arm upon her exit from her chamber twenty minutes later.

Augusta arched a thin brow at the magnificent fellow.

"Of course I'm certain. I've already instructed those thoroughly nice girls in the kitchen to take the evening off. Anyway, what better way to get an idea of the general mood in the city?" she replied, pulling the thick dark shawl tighter over her new forest green dress with her free hand. Although the evenings were warmer in Gondor than Imladris, there was still a slight nip in the air, Winter having not completely released its grip. "Besides, Mistress Mirwen went to so much trouble making me this very pretty dress - and so very quickly, too - that it really would be a pity not to show it off, don't you think?"

Her nephew relented with a sigh. "Very well. But I must warn you, the only inn I discovered yet open in these troubled times was a rather dismal one on the third circle. It is full of the most unsavoury of characters. I would not recommend such an establishment to any lady, let alone one as noble as my Aunt Augusta."

Augusta regarded him with a gleam in her eye. His (extremely) handsome face was the picture of innocence, but she knew that he had simply changed tactics from all-out pleading to (not so) subtle dissuasion in his attempt to convince her to remain in the safety of their lodgings.

"Unsavoury characters, eh?" she said with a sniff. "Well, we might see the Steward there -"

Glorfindel abandoned his concern for her well being to chuckle instead. His aunt was still annoyed at Denethor's slight to her character, it would seem.

"- and you'll fit right in, too, now that I come to think about it."

The elf'S chuckles abruptly stopped.

"Now then, young man; if you're quite finished trying to persuade me to remain at home and eat yet more pork …"

Something she had no intention of doing. Írildë had already served it last night for tea, but the joint that the kitchen staff had roasted was so large, that there had been plenty left over for breakfast. _And_ lunch.

"… then I would very much like to be on my way."

With a sigh of resignation, Glorfindel escorted her downstairs and out into the cool evening air. As it was only six o'clock, there was yet plenty of light to illuminate their passage down through the levels of the city.

"May I say how very becoming you look this evening, Aunt?" said Glorfindel gallantly as they passed through the fourth level gates and onto the third circle of the city. The silent guards barely acknowledged them.

"You may," replied the elderly witch, waiting expectantly for the promised compliment. Glorfindel, taken aback at first, laughed when he caught the twinkle in her bright blue eyes.

"Then I shall," he chuckled, squeezing her hand. "You look very becoming this evening, Aunt. Gondorian attire agrees with you."

Yes, well, that may very well be; but _she_ did not necessarily agree with Gondorian attire. Far too light and floaty. Still, at least the shawl, with its thick woollen fibres, was warm enough to ward off the worst of the evening chill. And thank goodness she had managed to talk the seamstress into putting a hidden pocket at the side of the dress itself, otherwise she would have had nowhere to put her wand!

"You look rather dashing yourself," she added thoughtfully, admiring her companion's golden tunic and matching cloak.

He beamed at the compliment.

"Now," said Augusta, feeling that there had been quite enough emotional frippery and admiring of clothes, "where is this deuced establishment?"

They (very) odd couple passed a few grand houses on their right, one or two of which were falling into disrepair. At the end of the row stood a blacksmith's; a one-storey building sporting a black anvil painted onto a wooden board above the doorway. Glorfindel indicated a narrow street which branched off to the blacksmith's right and the couple strolled down the alley. A few dark-haired locals passed, their shoulders hunched as they scurried towards the main thoroughfare. One or two lifted their heads to stare at the visitors suspiciously before moving quickly away.

"The locals are still a bit wary of newcomers by the looks of things," remarked Augusta after her polite nod was ignored by an elderly man who rushed away from them in barely concealed fear. "Not that I'm surprised if a few of them have been murdered by Sauron's spies. Hmm. I wonder if there are any more of _them_ skulking about the streets."

She stuck her free hand in her pocket and idly fingered her wand.

"'Tis unlikely," said Glorfindel grimly. "Denethor's soldiers are naught if not thorough. They will have scoured every building and alleyway in Minas Tirith until the culprit or culprits were caught, and the Gondorians themselves would have been eager to inform them of any strangers seen lurking through the streets or boarding at the inns after news of such deaths reached their ears. Ah, we have arrived, Aunt."

They came to a stop before a two storey building halfway down the narrow lane. As with all of Minas Tirith's buildings, it was constructed from smooth white stone, though it was clear that the structure could do with a fresh lick of paint. A small oak door led into the inn proper, above which hung a dull wooden sign with black lettering.

"_The Tipsy Troll_," read the witch aloud, frowning at the troll depicted underneath the lettering of the sign who appeared to be swaying about drunkenly with a large jug of ale in one hand and what looked like an entire leg of beef in the other. "Heavens! I hope that's not an indication of the clientele."

"Nay. _They_ are not so tall," supplied her dashing nephew. He moved to hold the door open and waited politely as she preceded him into the inn.

Such a charming, well-mannered fellow, he was!

If only she could say the same for the inn itself. The Tipsy Troll was every bit as dubious as its name suggested, noted Augusta, as she stepped into the gloomy interior. Wooden benches were fixed all the way down the walls, with two long, pock-marked tables running the length of the room before them; another series of scratched, worn benches offered patrons seats at the opposite side of the tables. Half a dozen squared tables were lined down the centre of the inn, none of which were currently occupied. In the corner of the room some very shifty-looking chaps with unkempt beards and grubby tunics sat conversing quietly over their tankards, their shadows dancing across the wall, thrown into relief by the lone candle flickering valiantly on their table.

To the far left of the inn, a lone barman leaned across the wooden shelf which obviously passed as a counter and narrowed his eyes at Augusta in disapproval. She stared at him haughtily, arching a brow in silent question, and the barman straightened himself hurriedly (which may have had more to do with the arrival of her smart chaperone, than the glare from the lady herself). To the right of the doorway, a narrow staircase led to the first floor of the inn and, presumably, the rooms that were let to guests. A few tapestries decorated the walls, but they were so caked with filth that it was almost impossible to discern the patterns underneath. Two dirty windows, one on each side of the doorway, and a few miserable-looking torches hanging in brackets between the tapestries gave the chamber what little light it boasted.

"How … charming," muttered Augusta in a tone that clearly meant the opposite.

"Come, Aunt," said Glorfindel, guiding her by the elbow to corner booth near the window. He nodded to the proprietor, a silent signal for service, and the man called over his shoulder to someone hidden out of sight behind a thick black curtain. Within seconds a buxom young serving-maid in a stiff brown dress and white apron passed through it, wiping her hands on a dish cloth. The barman indicated their new guests and girl glanced automatically towards the tallest figure at the table. Enough light spilled through the grimy window to illuminate the corner and her eyes widened in surprise at the sight of the stunning elf. A slow smile curved at her lips and, throwing the rag at her employer, she yanked off her wedding band and shoved it into her apron pocket. With a calculating gleam in her eye, she tucked a stray dark hair behind her ear, thrust her (impressive) chest up and out, pinched her cheeks to colour them and strode confidently towards Augusta and Glorfindel. By the time she reached their corner table, her astonishment had transformed into a toothy, appreciative grin.

"Welcome, my lord," she began, (hardly daring to believe her luck. An Elf! In The Tipsy Troll! And her serving him and all!). "My name is Nimriel and I will be tending to your needs this fair evening, sir."

_All_ his needs, given half a chance.

Nimriel, so intent on drinking in the sight of the magnificent elf, completely ignored the lady who accompanied him. Augusta rolled her eyes, put a hand to her mouth, and coughed politely to catch her attention. The girl paused in her drooling, threw a quick glance to the elf's side and assessed the competition. Deeming the little old lady no threat to her (less than) romantic aspirations, she offered Augusta a reluctant greeting.

"Oh. Forgive me, good mistress. I am of course here to tend to all your needs also," she said perfunctorily.

"How very kind of you," drawled Augusta, not at all thrilled at being treated like an afterthought. _Her_, an afterthought!

Nimriel, catching the tone of disapproval, frowned slightly before returning her greedy eyes to Glorfindel. "What may I bring you and your grandmother good sir?"

The serving-maid gave her a sidelong glance and Augusta bristled. Her? Grandmother to a thirty year old man? How _dare_ she!

But before she could object to Nimriel's insolence, Glorfindel saved the day. Sort of.

"Nay, not grandmother, Mistress Nimriel," he corrected the Gondorian with a gentle smile (the girl swooned). "The Lady Augusta is too young in years to fulfil that role -"

What a wonderfully chivalrous chap her nephew was!

"- as I am sure you would realise upon closer inspection. She is my aunt."

What a complete cad her nephew was! Closer inspection?

Augusta glowered at him in affront. Why, he made it sound as if one had to go on a full-scale archaeological expedition simply to determine her age! What utter nonsense! A quick glance should be all that was required in order to confirm that she was barely sixty-five!

Well, perhaps sixty-seven.

Sixty-nine?

Oh, all right then! Seventy-one! Though, it had to be said that in a certain light (utter darkness) she had been known to pass for fifty (thirty years ago, when she had actually been _forty_. But that was beside the point).

Still miffed at Floor-kindle's careless remark, Augusta growled, though he was too busy with the serving-maid to notice.

"I beg your pardon, my lord. I meant no offence. 'Twas a mere oversight," simpered the girl, batting her eyelashes coquettishly. She offered a brief nod of apology to Augusta (who snorted in a very unladylike manner).

Oversight indeed!

"And what may I bring you and your lady aunt for your pleasures, good sir?" queried Nimriel, the epitome of civility once more. "Rump of lamb? Fried liver with onions? Perhaps some buttered calves' hearts - 'tis my speciality."

Augusta grimaced. Rump? Liver? Hearts? Gracious, had her strapping nephew escorted her to the local abattoir in error?

"Don't you have something that will settle a little lighter on the stomach, young lady?" she enquired primly. "Something a little less likely to clog my arteries on sight and kill me off before I settle the bill?"

Well, before _Floor-kindle _settled the bill.

Glorfindel chuckled involuntarily; Nimriel shot the witch a glowering look for making the dreamy elf laugh at her expense. He caught the expression and sought to soothe her ruffled nerves.

"My aunt intends no slight to your doubtless excellent cooking, Mistress Nimriel," he interjected smoothly, giving her the full benefit of his pearly whites. The girl's thunderous expression melted into one of sheer delight, and she sighed blissfully. "'Tis merely that we prefer lighter fare at this late hour. Have you some fish or poultry that you might prepare for us instead?"

"Certainly, sir," replied the serving-maid, giving her guest the full benefit of her magnificent cleavage when she leaned ever-so-slightly across the table.

Augusta frowned in disapproval. One wrinkly hand crept towards her secret pocket and felt for the wand within, ready to hex the silly girl halfway to Rohan and back if she tried any funny business.

"I have a slice or two of Purlofish left. 'Tis a local speciality. 'It will be the last we have for a while, I imagine, what with the Troubles and all -" Nimriel glanced meaningfully out the window and shivered delicately "- and I _was_ thinking of saving it for the blacksmith, who is ever courteous when he comes by. But I suppose he can do just as well with oxen hooves as not. I shall be happy to prepare the fish for you instead, if that is your wish."

She smiled prettily at Glorfindel, but he missed it, busy as he was trying to look at anything _but_ the lady's heaving chest.

"What about poultry, young lady?" demanded Augusta in her brisk no-nonsense voice.

"Oh. Would the good sir prefer a bird instead?" enquired Nimriel of Augusta's companion. She batted her lashes flirtatiously in his direction. It was a testament to her character that the Green Witch did not vomit on the spot. Prefer a bird instead! What a silly girl!

"Delightful," replied the elf politely.

"And how does sir prefer his … bird?" the serving maid asked breathily. "Breast? Or leg?"

Glorfindel sighed, deeply regretting his good manners and wishing that he was about as attractive as the average orc: he had only been in the city two days and already the amorous advances of Minas Tirith's remaining female population were slowly beginning to grate on his nerves. Augusta, catching his low chuff of irritation, eyed Nimriel's heaving bosom in distaste.

Oh, really! This ridiculous display of cheap seduction was just too much!

"We've changed our minds, young woman. The fish will do perfectly well. As for the poultry, why don't you save that for your _courteous_ blacksmith?" she drawled, wondering if Denethor was aware that the only slapper in Minas Tirith was the shameless hussy-cum-barmaid at The Tipsy Troll. "That is," she added, staring pointedly at the white mark on the third finger of the girl's left hand, "if your husband has no objections?"

Mortified, Nimriel flushed. Straightening, she took a step back and clasped her hands before her apron, effectively concealing the pale mark left by her wedding band. An ugly scowl settled itself on her otherwise pretty face and Glorfindel grimaced at the sudden tension between the two women.

"My husband has fallen in battle," she protested a little too forcefully. "I am but a poor widow."

Poppycock! The girl had been caught with her fingers in the Ginger Newt jar and was now attempting to regain their sympathy with a tale of woe (and thereby wishing her no doubt very vital husband's death)!

As if in response to her theory, the door to the inn swung open and a man in the black-and-silver garb of the military entered. His eyes swept the inn for a second then, upon spotting them, approached their table. But his business was not with witch or elf. Instead he nodded once to Nimriel, reached into his tunic pocket, and withdrew a small roll of parchment. This he presented to the crimson-faced serving-maid.

"Mistress Nimriel," said the soldier kindly, "your husband bade me deliver this to you when next I returned to the City. Do not be alarmed, he is well, but he will delayed in his own return. It appears that repairs to the Rammas Echor will take longer than any of us suspected."

He arched an eyebrow expectantly when a (mortified) Nimriel did not immediately accept his missive, but finally - and with very ill grace - she snatched it from his hand and stuffed it into her apron pocket without so much as a word of thanks. Confused by her abruptness, the fellow nodded in polite farewell and promptly departed the inn, leaving a very sheepish serving-maid (and two scandalised patrons) in his wake.

"Well, well, well," muttered Augusta casually, absently flicking lint from the sleeve of her extravagant dress, "it appears that your husband hasn't popped his clogs after all. You must be delighted."

The serving-maid giggled in a very high-pitched manner and smoothed her dark hair back from her face with a shaky hand.

"Oh, did I say that _my_ husband had fallen?" she mumbled, throwing (only) Glorfindel a sheepish look. "How remiss of me! I intended to say that my _sister's_ husband had fallen. 'Twas a great shock to her. We are so close, you see, that her pain is often mine and sometimes I forget that she has suffered a loss that I have not."

Hah! A likely story.

"I am saddened both by your sister's loss and by any anxiety it must cause you on her behalf, lady," said Glorfindel diplomatically, dispelling the awkwardness of the moment. Though his words and expression remained sympethetic, there was now a slight coolness to his tone: clearly he had had enough.

"You are very kind, good sir," gushed Nimriel, steaming on. In an attempt to keep his good favour, she remained firmly on the other side of the table, and took the rest of their order with a good deal more efficiency (and a good deal less cleavage, much to the witch's relief). "Now, what may I bring you and your elderly aunt to quench your thirst? Some ale, perhaps?"

_Elderly_ aunt? Why, that little …

Without waiting for his response, the serving-maid shook head. "No, mayhap not. 'Tis not elegant enough a drink for a lord as fine as yourself, if I may be so bold as to say. 'Tis more a drink for -"

She shot Augusta another sidelong glance.

"- common folks. May I beg your indulgence, lord, and offer you a flagon of Dorwinion wine instead? 'Tis an extravagance we do not often serve at The Tipsy Troll - the expense, you see; not many can afford it. But I will wager a guess that the cost means little to one such as your good self."

Her honeyed words were very effective; Shooting his aunt a cautious glance (she did not yet know that the barrel she had enchanted for him in Imladris was full of the very wine he was about to enjoy) nodded in approval. With a final perky bob at the elf, Nimriel completely blanked his aunt, turned smartly on her heel and left them with a flourish of brown skirts.

And Augusta was glad to see the back of her.

Deciding to waste no more time on the (shameless floozy of a) serving-maid, she turned her full attention to her honorary nephew.

"So, young man; what else did you discover in Minas Tirith during your afternoon wanderings?"

"I learned," began Glorfindel, lowering his voice (quite unnecessarily in her opinion. No one could possibly hear them, after all: the two chaps at the other end of the inn were still too engrossed in their own conversation, and the barman had slipped behind the curtain at the back of the counter with Nimriel - probably to taste her 'birds'), "that there are but three battalions of Tower Guards left in Minas Tirith to defend her from Sauron's attack."

"Three battalions?" Augusta mumbled, pondering the size of the orc army they had encountered along the Gap of Rohan. "So that's nearly five thousand men, hm? I have to say that if Sauron's army is as big as that idiot Saruman's, then five thousand won't stretch far."

"Nay, Aunt," said Glorfindel sombrely. "Gondor's military units differ in size from Saruman's. They will consist of no more than four thousand Men, if that."

His face was grave as he imparted the news, though she couldn't understand why. Four thousand men each? Splendid! But why, oh, why couldn't these blasted New Zealanders standardise their groupings? A battalion should jolly well be the same number of chaps _everywhere_, no matter who their leader was!

"Twelve thousand men is nothing to be sniffed at, my good fellow," she remarked thoughtfully, wondering how Denethor would make the best strategic use of them - and how she and Glorfindel could best aid them in their unhappy task.

"Nay, Aunt, you have misunderstood: four thousand Men _altogether_, not per battalion."

If she had been holding a glass, Augusta would have dropped it in dismay. As it was, she dropped her jaw instead.

"Altogether?" She was staggered. "What in the name of Merlin does that ridiculous Steward imagine he's going to do with a mere four thousand men? Heavens! He couldn't stop a rabid _Prophet_ reporter with that, let alone a flood of baying orcs!"

Her (rather loud) outburst caught the attention of the other patrons in the tavern (all two of them) and the shifty men in the corner paused in their conversation to glance over at their booth in curiosity. It was only with a concerted effort that Augusta reigned in her (scary) temper, all the while wishing she could just whip out her wand and cast a Silencing charm on the booth to ensure their privacy, instead of having to go all Muggle on the locals.

"Where did you get this information?" she hissed. "Was the source reliable? Perhaps they're mistaken. Why, Denethor might very well have a few thousand more troops stashed in his basement, ready to take the orcs by surprise if they storm the castle …"

"Nay, Aunt. He does not," insisted Glorfindel, casting a watchful eye on the two men across the room (who were still peering in their direction). "My source was a man of arms from the Third Company, a Guard of the Citadel, no less. He is very loyal to Faramir, son of the Steward, and easily recognised me as warrior of the West. I was able to …"

Whatever Floor-kindle was able to do, Augusta did not find out directly, for Nimriel returned at that moment with a tray of drinks.

"Your wine, good sir," she simpered, placing a goblet and a small flagon of richly-coloured red wine before the elf.

"My thanks, Mistress Nimriel," said Glorfindel, unwilling to encourage the busty serving-maid with anything more than the briefest of nods. She swooned nevertheless upon hearing her name on his lips, then thumped a (massive) tankard of foaming liquid before Augusta.

"Your ale, mistress," said the younger woman tartly, before flouncing back to the kitchen in a flurry of petticoats. Augusta, in her outrage at the obvious slight, found herself temporarily distracted from their discussion on troop numbers.

"Did you see that? That chit of a girl served me ale. _Ale!_" snapped the fuming granny, glowering at the foaming tankard as if it had personally offended her. It was all Glorfindel could do not to laugh out loud at her thunderous expression. "Of course, you know what she's implying by that, don't you? Hmm? That I'm _common_. Yes! Common, I say! She said it earlier: ''tis more a drink for common folks'! Why, if I weren't a Longbottom, I'd hex her nasty little tongue out!"

"Then I am glad indeed that you hail from the noble line of Longbottom, Aunt," soothed Glorfindel, before adding, "though perhaps it was naught more than an oversight on the young lady's part."

Oversight her foot! Augusta huffed, completely unconvinced. Her nephew was a splendid fellow indeed, but he was a bit too apt to think the best of everyone.

The elf poured some wine into his goblet and placed it on the table before her, deftly removing her (massive) tankard of ale before it boiled away under the sole force of her hot glare.

"There. I believe that may suit your decidedly _uncommon_ taste better," he said, with a cheeky twinkle. "Though I would advise caution: Dorwinion wine is quite potent. As for me, well, I shall be more than content with the ale."

Poppycock! Augusta Longbottom was more than up to the challenge of a simple glass of Muggle wine. Still, what a splendid chap her nephew was for offering!

Beaming, she lifted the goblet and toasted his very good health, sipping delicately at the fruity wine.

"Now, young man," she said, placing her goblet back on the table and putting all thought of vindictive serving-maids out of her mind, "you were talking about an informant who works in the Citadel?"

"Indeed. Beregond informed me that many of the City's soldiers have been drafted to enhance the garrison which defends western Osgiliath from Sauron's forces. But their task there is increasingly perilous. They lost many troops during the assault last Summer and the host of Mordor was not as large then as it will surely be now. In order to compensate …"

"Denethor has sacrificed Minas Tirith's forces to bolster those at the front line," finished the elderly witch, frowning heavily.

"Precisely," agreed the elf after taking a draught of his ale. "But all is not lost. Beregond also said that scouts have been arriving in the City all day with word from the South. It seems that the southern fiefdoms of Gondor are sending companies of their own to Minas Tirith's aid - and he has estimated there to be over two thousand at last count, including Knights from Dol Amroth and archers from the Blackroot Vale; and those numbers increase by the hour as ever more scouts arrive."

"So, a possible six thousand against ... how large do you think Sauron's army might be?"

"I cannot say. He sacrificed a small number of Orcs several months past in order to test Osgiliath's defences, though Orcs are, in general, sensitive to daylight - at least those of Mordor are. So I fail to see how the Dark Lord shall manage to despatch a significantly larger host on a journey of several nights _and_ days, in order to lay siege to a city as large as this." Glorfindel's expression became thoughtful. "Yet we must also take into account the Easterlings and Southrons over whom he holds sway; they may march as easily in daylight as not. and will surely swell their master's army by another twenty thousand. Plus whatever other foul creatures Sauron may have to offer. This attack has been long in the planning, Aunt. I would not bargain with less than ninety thousand strong."

No less than_ ninety thousand_? Botheration! As handy as she was with a wand (and she was), not even the formidable Augusta Longbottom could deal with an army that large.

Well, not _alone_ anyway.

"In that case, let's hope those reinforcements from southern Gondor are jolly good at their jobs, shall we? And that they get here before Sauron's army, because Denethor's four thousand will simply not be enough to hold off such a dreadfully large assault - even with our aid. Why, Minas Tirith would fall in a matter of minutes, and by the time this Aragorn fellow arrives, he'll have no kingdom left to speak of!"

Which meant that her grandson could kiss his potential peerage goodbye.

"Now, did this Beregond have any information on the current location of Sauron's army? Or mention exactly how Denethor's companies would be stationed?" she enquired, taking another sip of the (really, _far_ too delicious) wine.

Several seconds passed without Glorfindel answering her question and Augusta tapped her goblet impatiently, a mild rebuke on the tip of her tongue. She was about to deliver it when she paused, struck by the frown on his own face. Gracious, was that silly girl on her way back? She couldn't possibly have finished grilling their fish already!

Unless the Tipsy Troll was one of those bothersome Muggle restaurants with that new-fangled, and utterly inexplicable, fondness for serving it raw …

The thought of Nimriel's (unwelcome) return with a plate of (possible) sushi, was enough to make Augusta huff in annoyance. Why, oh why had the good citizens of Minas Tirith adopted a taste for such contemporary (and highly suspicious) Muggle dishes when they couldn't even adopt Muggle attire? It was quite exasperating - and most peculiar, now that she came to think about it. In fact, in her short time in the city, she had noticed _several_ peculiarities about its inhabitants: their vernacular, their medieval weaponry (the guards carried swords and shields), the complete lack of motor-cars, electra-city and telly-phones …

True, even Imladris had not boasted such modern Muggle conveniences, but she had put _that_ down to the fact that it was some sort of themed half-magical holiday resort (given that its proprietor was related to a house-elf or two).

Dismissing her mental meandering for the moment, Augusta's eyes flickered to the counter at the other end of the inn, fully expecting to see the busty serving-girl flouncing her was towards them, heavily laden with (raw) fish; but Nimriel was nowhere in sight and only the barman, who had reappeared from behind the heavy curtain, was evident. He stood at the makeshift counter, wiping it with a rag while his eyes flickered between her table and the shabby strangers (who were whispering among themselves once more).

Perplexed, Augusta tapped her distracted companion briskly on the arm. "Archibald? What on earth are you staring at?" she asked, raising her voice an octave or two.

The elf shot her a warning glance and she automatically lowered her tone. "Well? Are you going to tell me what's so fascinating or not?"

Glorfindel's face eased back into a smooth smile as he turned to face her once more. "Our fellow patrons have taken an interest in us, it seems," he said, casually picking up his tankard and sipping at his drink. "Ever since we arrived, they have been stealing glances in our direction. At first I thought it natural curiosity - we are certainly the most unusual pair of visitors to Minas Tirith that any have seen for a long time - but now I begin to suspect otherwise."

Fighting the urge to confront the nosy strangers (and the urge to hex them for being rude enough to eavesdrop), Augusta decided to pretend she was unaware of their curiosity. The elderly witch picked up her goblet, took a sip of wine and placed back on the table, tapping the stem with a bony finger.

"And why is that?" she asked through a fake (and very thin) smile.

"Because they have barely stopped looking at us ever since they learned that the Steward of Gondor has but four thousand troops with which to defend his city."

Something which they had no doubt learned from _her_ after she so eloquently voiced her dismay to the entire inn. Augusta shifted uncomfortably in her seat, grateful that Floor-kindle was too much of a gentleman to point that out.

"Oh. Yes, well, perhaps they thought we were discussing something else -"

Glorfindel cocked a golden eyebrow at her.

"- and then again, perhaps not," amended the witch, taking a rather large swig of her wine (to mask this, for her, rare moment of embarrassment). Augusta's gaze flickered over the rim of the goblet towards the other table where she caught one of the two strangers boldly appraising her. The grizzly man's eyes narrowed as they locked with hers, then he bent forward to mutter something to his companion, never once breaking visual contact with her.

How rude! Why on earth was the fellow gawking at her in that stupid manner? Was it the norm for Gondorians to be so impolite, or was that a characteristic specific to him and his unkempt friend?

Or did the dodgy chaps have some other, more sinister, reason for taking such interest in her and her nephew?

What a terrible pity she couldn't whip out her wand and force them to explain themselves under threat of a well-aimed Stinging hex or two! Blast it all, but life as a Muggle was really beginning to lose its charm! And if Neville did not miraculously appear in Minas Tirith within the next hour, she might jolly well forget herself and start cursing the next shifty character she clapped eyes on!

She set her goblet back on the table with a thud and narrowed her eyes at the insolent man. Her obvious disapproval seemed to do the trick, for he averted his gaze within seconds, leaving her to wonder at his appalling lack of manners.

"I see what you mean," she muttered to her companion, who was still smiling serenely (which was no surprise: Floor-kindle was probably used to such attention, as handsome as he was - even from men. Then again, at least her nephew didn't have to worry about the fellows thrusting _their_ heaving bosoms in his face). "I have to say, though, that despite those ghastly beards and shoddy shirts, neither of them appear to be particularly old or infirm. I would have thought that if any reasonably young, fit men still remained in the city, that Denethor would have recruited them into his forces - especially if a conflict is so imminent. Still, perhaps they're off duty …"

Glorfindel shook his head. "Gondor - and indeed the entire West - finds itself in a state of war. There is no such thing as 'off' duty in such times."

Recalling the recent conflict in Britain, Augusta was forced to agree. Her nephew continued.

"Yet I do agree with you on one point, Aunt. I believe them to have been recruited."

He gave her a significant look.

"But the question is, for whom?"

The aged witch frowned. "You don't think that they're spies, do you?"

He shrugged elegantly. "What other explanation could there be for their presence here? Did I not say this inn was home to unsavoury characters? If they were Men of honour, they would be keen to protect the City: instead they idly while away their time in an inn of ill repute, imbibing on ale and eavesdropping on the private conversation of a noblewoman and her companion …"

"Especially when said 'noble' woman is silly enough to announce troop numbers to all and sundry," finished Augusta, mentally chastising herself for her own stupidity. "Well, when you put it like that, I suppose you have a point. But they're Gondorians, aren't they? You don't think they're spying for Mordor, do you? Betraying their own people?"

"If you recall, Denethor said several of Sauron's agents were captured within the City walls?"

Augusta nodded. Denethor _had_ said that - shortly after he'd accused her of being an old tart … She flushed in anger at the recollection.

"And those agents," continued Glorfindel, attributing her high colour to the Dorwinion wine (although he did arch a brow in surprise when she suddenly downed the contents of her goblet, then poured herself another), "could not have infiltrated the City without assistance."

"And you think that those dubious chaps over there might be responsible for that?" asked Augusta, indicating the other table with an inclination of her grey head.

"As much as it pains me to say so, I believe it is likely, given their unusual behaviour thus far," he replied, nodded in affirmation.

Augusta clenched her jaw in disgust. How shocking! How thoroughly abhorrent! If indeed the two shifty men, watching them once more from across the room, had allowed enemies to sneak into the city and murder their fellow citizens, then they were an absolute disgrace to their parents! She was in no doubt as to what instigated this betrayal of their country: money.

Money!

The idiots! What on earth did they think would be left to spend their gold on once Sauron was finished obliterating everything in sight? What utter nincompoops!

Suddenly, another, very alarming, thought occurred to her: the agents Denethor had captured had been looking for information on the person who had killed Sauron's nose-ghoul, hadn't they? Which meant they were looking for …

_Neville!_

A gasp of dismay escaped her lips as the realisation struck her.

"Heavens!" she hissed, clutching at her goblet with a shaky hand. "If they are in league with that silly wizard in Mordor, then my grandson is in danger - well, even more danger than he already is. Why, I've a good mind to go over there right now and jinx their particulars out of existence!"

If looks could kill, the two (possibly innocent) fellows would have dropped on the spot under her withering glare. Fortunately for them, they did not. There was, however, a loud splutter as her elegant companion (very inelegantly) spluttered his mouthful of ale all over the table.

"As interesting as such a course of action would be to witness, it would cause you naught but strife. Do not forget that the Steward believes you to be naught more than a rather eccentric visitor. Even were your magic to prove that these two Men were in league with Gondor's greatest foe, Denethor would frown upon you for the lie."

"I did not lie to him!" declared Augusta self-righteously, fingering her wand under the table (with the clear intention of using it, a fact not lost upon her sharp-eyed companion). "I merely omitted certain facts."

"Nevertheless, he will consider the omission a deliberate deception and question your motives. Denethor is a shrewd Man; if he believes you deceived him about your true nature, it will not take him long to realise that you - that we both - know more of certain events outside his realm than we first admitted to, and that will lead him to question everything we told him during our audience with him."

What he was really saying was that Denethor would know that they were fully aware of who slew Sauron's deadly servant and that they had deliberately chosen to withhold that information. What's more, he would question her cock-and-bull story about 'Aragog', which would lead him to the conclusion that there was indeed an 'Aragorn', and that said chap was more than keen to oust him from power …

Denethor would imprison them both in the dungeons of his dilapidated city and throw away the key …

Botheration!

With great reluctance, Augusta pocketed her wand. As angry as she was with the bearded delinquents, it would not do to jeopardise her cover, or Aragorn's existence. And, if she was honest, the thought of Floor-kindle wallowing in a Gondorian cell because of her rash actions was unbearable.

"Very well. I'll leave their bits intact - for the moment," she said, glowering at the man who had held her gaze so impertinently minutes ago. He was watching her once more, but this time, he did not look away. "But, dash it all! It irks me to sit here and let them get away with their treachery!"

"There may be a way of dealing with that without resorting to the use of your staff," suggested Glorfindel, distracting her from her staring contest with the shifty stranger.

"Oh, really? Well, if you're implying that we go over there and beat the truth out of them I'm afraid I'll have to decline the offer. I abhor physical violence."

The thought of the little old woman 'beating the truth' out of anyone raised a smile to Glorfindel's lips.

"Nay. 'Tis nothing so distasteful," he said. "But it is obvious that they are curious about us. I intend merely to sate that curiosity."

Gracious! If he thought for one second that she would be willing to pick up her goblet and join the motley pair for a friendly chat, the he could jolly well think again!

Luckily, Glorfindel was thinking no such thing. Instead, he offered her a smile so stunning, it would have rendered the lascivious Nimriel speechless, then donned his golden cloak.

"Are we leaving?" Augusta asked in some dismay (she was starving!).

"_We_ are not," replied Floor-kindle pointedly, sliding out of the booth and facing her. "I, however, am." He held up a finely-boned hand when she moved to object. "Fear not. I shall return as soon as I may. I leave only that our companions may follow."

"Follow? You? Both of them? You'll be outnumbered, young man!" she declared, instantly worried for his safety.

"As outnumbered as I was at the Gap of Rohan?" he asked with a cheeky wink.

Fiddlesticks! He had a point. She should probably be more concerned about anyone stupid enough to try and corner him. Still, it didn't sit well with her to simply allow him to place himself at risk, however small that risk was.

"What if they don't follow you?"

"Then we shall know that their curiosity of us is as innocent as any other in Minas Tirith, and that we have done them a disservice by thinking so ill of them. Yet, I think we both know that they shall follow me, Aunt. Even now I can feel their eyes burning into my back. They will not miss this opportunity to catch one of us alone."

"Well, if the one they end up catching alone is me, Merlin help them! They'll surely believe that I am the easier target: an old woman sitting alone in a disreputable tavern."

Glorfindel shook his head, his blond locks sliding back and forth over his shoulders. Augusta had the sudden urge to chop them off.

"Nay, they will not dare. The innkeeper would not take kindly to - forgive me, Aunt - an elderly lady being harassed by such unsavoury characters, for he knows you entered with me."

"The innkeeper? If you're referring to that fellow at the bar, I am quite certain he already thinks me the worst sort of woman simply because I had the nerve to enter his seedy establishment. No doubt the only women ever to come in here are … well, the sort that Denethor accused me of being yesterday," she huffed, then added, "and the serving-maid, of course - which, now that I think of it, may very well be the same thing."

"He will not wish to cross me if aught were to befall you under his care," assured Glorfindel, just as the serving-maid approached with their meal.

"Oh. Are you leaving, my lord?" asked Nimriel, coming to a halt by his side. She balanced a tray of steaming food on a large tray, and looked completely crestfallen that her beautiful guest was deserting her.

"I shall return presently," he explained briskly. "I have merely to retrieve my aunt's hat from our residence - 'tis too cold for her to do without it on our return trip later this evening. I would be grateful if you and your employer would accord my aunt every consideration during my short absence."

He arched an expectant eyebrow, and Nimriel nodded, chagrined that lordly elf had no more smiles for her.

Augusta was too impressed with his quick thinking to object at having a chaperone assigned to her.

"Of course, good sir!" promised Nimriel meekly. "I shall see her treated as well as my own dear aunt."

She offered the witch such a cloying smile, that Augusta wondered if the girl hadn't perhaps bumped her 'own dear aunt' off in order to get at the family jewels.

"I could be in no safer hands, I'm sure," quipped Augusta wryly, as her honorary nephew grinned before turning on his heel and leaving her alone with his heartbroken admirer. Two sets of narrowed eyes tracked his progress from table to door and out onto the street. No sooner had he left when Nimriel whipped the tray of steaming food (fish, potatoes, several dishes of vegetables and a pitcher of thin, fragrant sauce that Augusta could have happily tipped straight down her own throat) from the table.

"You will not be wanting to eat without your nephew, Mistress," she stated brusquely, "so I shall just take this back to the kitchen and keep it warm until his return, shall I?"

Without waiting for an answer, Nimriel spun around and flounced off, leaving the hungry witch to stare at her retreating back in astonishment.

Ghastly girl! Her suspicions about the family jewels may be correct after all! No doubt she had offed her aged relative, then carved the poor woman into slices (with no other weapon than her sharp tongue) before passing her off as a very large pack of bacon!

She hiccoughed, her stomach jerking with protest, and covered her mouth belatedly. Another hiccough, another bothersome jerk. This was all that serving-maid's fault! If the silly girl had at least left her the blasted fish, Augusta would look a lot more like a respectable woman tucking into her dinner, and a lot less like a drunken hussy. She glared at the wench as the proprietor opened the curtain for the younger woman, then passed into the kitchen behind her, leaving the witch alone in the inn proper with two very shifty chaps - both of whom were now whispering furiously with each other.

Trying to look for all the world as if she were content to be stranded in the company of a pair of thoroughly despicable traitors, Augusta sipped nonchalantly at her wine (between hiccoughs), wishing they would get up and leave before she drank herself senseless. Already she felt a little light-headed. Gracious, floored by one and a half glasses of wine? What would the ladies at the Knitting Bee say to that? Still, Bore-spindle … er, Floor-kindle … had warned her to be cautious with it.

With a brisk shake of her head, Augusta focused her blurry vision on the opposite side of the room. To her relief, it was not long before both men stood, threw some coins on the table and departed.

Excellent! Floor-kindle's plan was working splendidly! He'd be able to make short work of stumping them for information … er … humping them for half the nation … oh, no, that couldn't be right, could it?

Augusta hiccoughed again, so violently that half the contents of her goblet sloshed over the rim.

Good grief - she was sozzled! Completely and utterly Fletchered! Roaring skunk … er …drunk!

Thank Merlin that Neville wasn't here to see her like this!

Grateful (for once) for that small mercy, she pushed away her goblet and mopped at the spilled liquid with a pocket handkerchief, tracking the men's progress (all four of them … or was that six? Gracious, where had they all come from?) through her lashes.

But only one of them made for the exit …

Much to her dismay, the very one who had been staring at her all evening walked over to her booth and slipped in beside her. She tried to move away, far enough to at least draw her wand, but the quick movement evoked a feeling of nausea so intense, that it was all she could do not to vomit.

"Good evening, Mistress," hissed the stranger, his brown eyes glittering at her malevolently. "I believe it about time that you and I became … acquainted with each other."

Acquainted? Her? With thish hairy, shmelly, shifty looking chap? Shertainly not!

"I don't think sho, you dishgrasheful baboon!" she exclaimed, fumbling under the table for her dress pocket.

The unmistakable feel of a blade pressed against her ribcage made Augusta freeze.

"You may not think so, but I do," growled her assailant menacingly. "Indeed, I _know_ so. Therefore, you will accompany me to a more … private … residence, where we may better discuss your knowledge of the Steward's forces - and of your lordly Elven companion!"

Without giving her a chance to protest, he stood and dragged her, wand-arm first, from the booth. Augusta was torn between a wild desire to ask which elven companion he was talking about, and an even wilder desire to empty her stomach. Temporarily unable to free her arm from his vice-like grip, she threw a frantic look at the bar, but the bothersome proprietor was still tucked safely away in the kitchen with his busty employee, leaving her no choice but to stumble (drunkenly) away from safety of his disreputable inn …

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Author's Note_: This was to be a longer, completed chapter that I posted today, but my cat died unexpectedly two days ago, which sucked the humour right out of me. However, you've already waited a while for this one, so I'll post what I have just now (I'll proof it properly tomorrow, so forgive any errors) and give you the rest of it shortly.

Kara's Aunty.


	28. Interrogation

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. The Hobbit, Lord of the Rings and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my (very) unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

**Credit:** Tuckborough dot com and Harry Potter Wiki

**Not Quite A Maia**

**Chapter 28**

* * *

_Minas Tirith_

_Third Age 9th__ March 3019_

"What's the Steward like, Gandalf?"

Gandalf nodded briskly to the guards at the gates of the sixth circle. Word of their arrival seemed to have gone before them, and silently the men opened the tall gates allowing him to nudge Shadowfax through. Dawn was an hour or two away yet, though torches and lanterns suspended from brackets along the walls every few metres offered enough light to illuminate their path towards the Citadel. Unlike the lower levels of the city - which were bustling with a surprising amount of activity given the early hour - the sixth level was relatively quiet and only a few guards in black and silver hauberks passed them, all marching briskly toward the gates he and Pippin had just passed through. Their faces were grim with a strange determination that made Gandalf frown.

What in the name of Arda was going on?

Not that the wizard had any intention of stopping to question them - he had tried that already on the fourth level and the only reply he had received was ''Tis an evil business, Lord. A shameful slur on our fair City,' before the guard had dismissed him and faded back into the poorly-lit alleyways.

Well, he would no doubt discover the reason for all the late night - or early morning - activity once he reached the Citadel. Sighing, Gandalf fell back into contemplation of the upcoming, and no doubt difficult, audience with Denethor. The Steward had obviously learned of their arrival in Minas Tirith, if the ease of their passage through the city so far was anything to go by.

So absorbed in his thoughts was he, that Gandalf did not at first register Pippin's question. Impatient, the hobbit posed it once more.

"Gandalf? The Steward - what's he like?" repeated Pippin, shifting slightly in his seat to glance up at the silent figure behind him.

Pulled from his thoughts, the White Wizard looked down at Pippin's curly head.

"That you shall discover soon enough, Peregrin Took," he muttered as they rode swiftly through the silent streets and approached the final gate leading to the Citadel. Two guards with high, winged helms, and wearing black surcoats, upon which were embroidered a white tree, stared at them emotionlessly as the new arrivals slowed to a halt. Gandalf gave the password and dismounted, plucking Pippin from Shadowfax's back. A (very nervous) stable boy slipped from the shadows, bowed to the newcomers and eyed Pippin curiously before fixing his eyes on the enormous Meara with a mixture of awe and doubt.

"Should I take your horse, my lords?" asked the boy, obviously wondering how he was to lead it away when it lacked harness or bridle. But he did not wonder long. Gandalf whispered a few words into the horse's ears. Shadowfax tossed his head imperiously before turning towards the youth and, relieved, the boy led him back down the road and out of sight.

"So," began Gandalf, as he and Pippin strode through the tunnel onto the seventh level and over the paved road up to the Tower of Ecthelion, "you asked me earlier about the Steward of Gondor. Now that our meeting with him is imminent, I shall share with you a word or two regarding him: in the lord of these lands, the blood of Númenor flows almost true. Do you know what this means?"

"That he's tall, dark and solemn?" puffed Pippin, who was too busy trying to keep up with Gandalf to elaborate. The hobbit was forced to take two steps for each one of his companion's long strides, and the effort was winding him. At his response, Gandalf suddenly stopped and twirled around to frown down at him.

"This is hardly the time for flippancy, Peregrin Took!" he barked. Pippin, surpirsed by the sudden lack of motion, crashed into Gandalf's legs and tumbled onto his rear. "The Lord Denethor is a remarkably far-seeing and learned Man! One searching glance will reveal to him the secrets of your mind if you do not guard your tongue!"

Grimacing, Pippin offered a mumbled apology. With a soft mutter of annoyance, Gandalf reached down and grabbed him by the scruff of his cloak, then hauled him back onto his feet.

"Sorry," said the hobbit meekly, brushing down his breeches before looking back up at the glowering wizard. "That's what I meant to say, but I was so busy trying to keep up with you that I didn't have the words to spare. Couldn't you walk a little slower?"

"Slower? The evil of Mordor will not wait patiently for one Hobbit to catch up with me ere it descends like a black cloak of despair on us all!" growled Gandalf in annoyance. He turned around smartly and began to stride once more towards the Tower (though he did, reluctantly, shorten his steps so that Pippin could keep pace with him).

"So the Steward is shrewd and wise?" puffed the hobbit, trotting complacently after his taller companion once more.

"Did I say wise?" said Gandalf as they passed the courtyard fountain. He grabbed a handful of elvish cloak and pulled Pippin behind him when the hobbit stopped to admire the dead tree beside the fountain. "I said 'far-seeing and learned', though you are correct when you call him shrewd. As for wise … well, let me say only that wisdom does not always follow where knowledge leads. Denethor may know much of the workings of the world, but he is frugal with common sense. Nevertheless, if he thinks you have knowledge which will benefit him or his City, he will use all his wiles to elicit it from you, regardless of the detriment to the wider world."

"Oh. Is that a polite way of telling me to keep quiet?"

Unable to help himself, Gandalf chuckled. "It appears that you also have your moments of shrewdness, Pippin. But yes: it would be better for all if you remained as silent as mouse, though I doubt that will be entirely possible. Denethor will set his mind to you and I warn you! This is no time for hobbit pertness. Théoden is a kindly old man. But Denethor is of another sort, proud and subtle, a man of far greater lineage and power, though he is not called a king. He will speak most to you, and question you much, since you can tell him of his son Boromir. But do not tell him more than you need, and leave quiet the matter of Frodo's errand!"

Before Pippin could respond, they came to a halt before a tall door of polished metal. Gandalf regarded his young companion gravely.

"Say nothing about Aragorn either, unless you must," warned the wizard solemnly, his bright orbs fixed on Pippin's green ones. The hobbit was tugging nervously at his elven cloak and trying to smooth his hair. Resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the young Took's little vanities, he leaned on his staff, lowered his voice and arched a brow expectantly. "Do you understand?"

"Why not? What's wrong with Strider?" Pippin whispered in kind. "He meant to come here, didn't he? And he'll be arriving soon himself anyway with Neville and Molly."

"There is no time now to instruct you on the history of Gondor, Master Pippin. Suffice to say that it is scarcely wise when bringing news of the death of his heir to a mighty lord to speak overmuch of the coming of one who will, if he comes, claim the kingship! Furthermore, you will say naught to him of either young Master Longbottom or the Lady Weasley. If he believes Aragorn to be not only coming to claim the kingship, but to be doing so in the company of two powerful Istari he has never before heard of, things may turn ill for us both! Is that enough?"

Pippin nodded slowly, a thoughtful look in his eye. Gandalf waited expectantly for what was to come. Sure enough …

"So: don't talk about Frodo's errand; say nothing of Strider unless pressed, and even then be vague; and on no account mention Neville or Lady Molly." Pippin paused after summing the situation up, then frowned. "Might it not be better if I just waited out here for you to come back? I mean, if all I have left to tell him is that Boromir is … dead, he might not thank me for it. Anyway, you could tell him that just as well as I could. You don't really need me to … aagh! Gandalf, what are you doing?"

"Ensuring that you fulfil your duty to your host," grumbled Gandalf as he dragged the hobbit up the steps towards the door, which had mysteriously opened before them. "If you imagine for one second that I will inform Denethor of the manner of his heir's death when you can give him a better report of it than I, then you are quite wrong. You owe it to the Steward to give an account of Boromir's fall, since you witnessed it for yourself."

"All right, all right!" protested Pippin, yanking himself free of Gandalf's grip. "I had no intention of leaving the unpleasantness to you … well, not really. I'm just not sure how to avoid speaking about anything else without giving away too much detail about Strider and the others!"

"I am certain that your inherent Tookishness will stand you in good stead if you feel the situation merits some … creativity," drawled Gandalf dryly. "Though I beg you not to be too creative: Denethor is no fool."

Satisfied with Pippin's solemn nod of agreement, he fell silent and guided the hobbit through the open door; they entered a vestibule which led on to a great hall with tall pillars.

Having trodden the Hall of Kings before, Gandalf wasted no time with admiring his lavish surroundings, more intent on using his energy to study the grim-faced man sitting on the Steward's chair. But barely had he and Pippin entered when it became clear that they were not Denethor's only visitors to the Tower Hall. It was alive with a buzz of activity: half a dozen soldiers scurried past the new arrivals with barely a nod before exiting; three more stood to the left of the Steward's chair. Another four flanked a tall stranger whose long hair flowed as golden as the cloak that covered his back. A stranger who seemed somewhat familiar …

"I tell you I have already searched the inn!" exclaimed the stranger's silvery voice in frustration as Gandalf and Pippin drew up behind him. Denethor, covered in a heavy black fur wrapping, and looking extremely worn, ignored their arrival to glower at the blond.

"Gandalf, it's …" hissed Pippin, but was cut off with a warning look from the White Wizard.

"Silence Pippin. I know the Lord of Gondolin when I see him," murmured Gandalf quietly. He returned his attention to the lords ahead in an attempt to discern the cause of their impassioned debate. There was not a doubt in his mind that Glorfindel was in some way involved in the increased activity on the lower levels - but where, then, was the Green Witch?

Pippin shuffled nervously at his side; the hobbit was clearly keen to greet Glorfindel, but he (wisely) did not dare disobey the wizard's instructions. Instead, he fell still (albeit reluctantly), allowing Gandalf to turn his attention to the irate visage of Denethor. The Steward gripped his staff of office tightly with both hands (as if he was trying to refrain from whacking the elf on the head with it).

"What else would you have me do, Archibald of Imladris?" snapped the Steward impatiently. "Have I not already despatched one score and ten Men to scour the City levels - Men that I can ill afford to spare in the search for one old woman, given these times of war? They have no report of her either! We have no choice but to question the innkeeper again."

Archibald? Why in Arda was Glorfindel answering to such a truly awful name? And why …

Curiosity warred with dismay as the Steward's words hit home, and Gandalf frowned as the reason for the extra troops roaming the streets of Minas Tirith became suddenly clear: Neville's grandmother had vanished.

"He will not speak, I tell you!" exclaimed Glorfindel passionately, drawing the wizard from his thoughts. "I have already attempted to discover their identities from him, but these ruffians have some skill with dark threats, I deem! The innkeeper and his serving maid deny any more than serving them ale! We must mobilise more Men and extend the search to every house on every level of the City!"

"I will not abandon the defence of this City merely to search for your wayward aunt! As for the innkeeper, he _will_ speak for the Steward of Gondor if I command it!" growled Denethor.

Wayward _aunt?_ What in Arda …

The wizard's eyes narrowed as he studied Glorfindel's back. Was his elven friend actually attempting to pass Neville's grandmother off as his _aunt_?

And Denethor _believed_ him?

It was all he could do not to laugh aloud. True, they had had to give _some_ explanation to the Steward of Gondor for their untimely arrival in his City. War was knocking at Minas Tirith's gates after all. But _aunt_?

The White Wizard sighed in exasperation. Aunt or nay, it was better than naught; at least now the Steward could not connect the lady with reports of Neville, if any had reached him yet.

But where _was _the Green Witch? And who was desperate enough to have abducted her?

More importantly, _why_ had they done so?

It was a silly question, he had to admit. Already suspicion was growing in his mind: had not Saruman been, until recently, in direct communication with Sauron? The fallen Maia had knowledge of both Neville and his grandmother; knowledge that he would not have been able to suppress from his evil cohort. Gandalf already suspected that Mordor's master would issue agents to every city of men far and wide to locate the slayer of his Nazgûl, whether or not he suspected the boy-wizard or his kin; if said agents had somehow stumbled across Augusta Longbottom within Minas Tirith's walls, and discovered her to be a witch, they would not delay in capturing her and taking her forthwith to Barad-dúr.

And if Neville's grandmother fell into Sauron's clutches …

The thought was so disturbing that Gandalf had to swallow his nausea. While it was in everyone's interest to keep Neville parted from his grandmother until the outcome of the war, he would have preferred a slightly less volatile solution to the problem. From what he had heard of the old woman thus far, she would not make for a very cooperative prisoner. And if she was not cooperative …

Sauron would slay her (if she did not slay him first)!

With grim resolve, the White Wizard abandoned propriety and, deeming it time for action, addressed the Steward before Denethor had even acknowledged his presence.

"Hail, Lord and Steward of Minas Tirith, Denethor son of Ecthelion!" he said, stepping out from behind Glorfindel, with Pippin in tow. "I am come with counsel and tidings in this dark hour."

This rather grand announcement was met by a dark look of dissatisfaction from Denethor and a cry of subdued delight from the golden-haired elf, who started at the sound of Gandalf's voice.

"Mithrandir!" exclaimed Glorfindel, his fair face torn between concern, confusion and shock as he rounded on the wizard. "Mithrandir! I thought you fallen! I was informed most assuredly that you were."

"As was I," grumbled Denethor (rather unhappily). "Yet clearly you live."

Gandalf clenched his teeth at his host's tone. Not that he had expected the stern man to pick himself up off his quasi-throne, rush down the steps, and throw his arms round him in joy; but really! Would a pleasant smile have been too much to ask for? Or an expression of something less than utter disappointment? Trying to ignore Denethor's cutting retort (which was difficult), he offered Glorfindel a warm smile, and the (apparently devastated) Steward a more perfunctory one.

"Reports of my demise have been a little hasty, it seems. Indeed I do live, as you see -"

The Steward's displeasure could not have been more glaringly obvious. Gandalf suppressed a glare of irritation.

"- though let us not waste precious time discussing the obvious. I have counsel for you, Steward, as I have already said. But first -"

He was about to couch his offer politely; but Denethor's scowling face made him change his mind.

"- allow me to offer my aid in locating the guest you appear to have mislaid."

Denethor flushed. "I did not _mislay_ my guest, Wizard! The foolish woman has managed to mislay herself!"

"What guest?" mumbled a confused Pippin to Gandalf from the corner of his mouth. The hobbit looked over at Glorfindel in curiosity "And why is the Steward calling him 'Archibald'? And I didn't know Glor … er, _Archibald_ had an aunt. We never saw her at Riven …"

Ai Elbereth! Was it too much to ask for the hobbit to suppress his Tookish curiosity for one blasted minute? Feeling rather peeved, Gandalf's only response was to tread discreetly on Pippin's toe, a silent order to remain silent; though he needn't have worried about Denethor overhearing the youngster's remark; Glorfindel had rounded angrily on the Steward and was giving him a (very loud) piece of his mind.

"How can you affirm that, son of Ecthelion? My aunt is neither foolish, nor did she 'mislay herself'. She is a guest in _your _City. She ought to be free to enjoy the hospitality of your inns without fearing abduction!"

"Had you not been foolish enough to abandon her merely to recover her _hat_, she may not have been abducted in the first place!" cried the Steward, rising from his seat in anger. The accusation hit home: Glorfindel bristled visibly, but then the elf's shoulders sagged with guilt. It would seem that Denethor had struck a nerve.

A brief flicker of sympathy passed across the Steward's mien, but disappeared as he retook his seat. Nevertheless, the lord of the land made a visible effort to address the elf in a more conciliatory tone thereafter.

"I regret your distress, Lord Archibald," said Denethor, his attempt at sympathy sounding stiff to Gandalf's ears. "Indeed, I regret that such an event has occurred in my City at all, regardless of where the fault lays. As guests in Minas Tirith, both you and your aunt have the right to enjoy its beauty freely and without fear of harm. Furthermore, as emissaries from Imladris, you have also the right to the Steward's particular protection - where it may still be given in such times as these."

Denethor absently fingered his rod of office. "Nevertheless, Gondor finds herself in a state of war: my forces are stretched from the farthest borders of Northern Ithilien to the most southern reaches of Belfalas. Those that remain here are stationed mainly on the Pelennor, awaiting Mordor's first strike. I have but few Men in the City proper, and they are required at present to bolster the protection of the gates on the first level. To commit more to the search for your aunt may hinder work vital to my City's defence."

Both Glorfindel and, much to Gandalf's surprise, Pippin protested.

"I do not ask you to send an entire company in search of her," said Glorfindel reasonably. "Merely enough to improve our chances of locating her swiftly."

"Well _I _think you should send an entire company in search of her!" declared Pippin hotly. In his ire, the hobbit completely forgot to whom he was speaking (much to Gandalf's chagrin), though a glare from Denethor in his direction made the youth falter. "I mean, I think you should send an entire company in search of her, _my Lord_," he amended politely.

"And who, or what, are you to make demands of the Lord of Minas Tirith?" demanded Denethor darkly.

"Erm, I'm Peregrin Took, at your service and your family's," supplied Pippin with a bow. "Though my friends call me Pippin. You can call me Pippin too, if you like. I'm a Hobbit from the Shire."

"A Hobbit?"

"You may know him better as a Halfling, though Hobbits like that name little enough," said Gandalf, watching carefully as Denethor's stern forehead crumpled into a frown.

"A Halfling? Dark indeed is the hour and at such times you are wont to come, Mithrandir. But though all the signs forebode that the doom of Gondor is drawing nigh, less now to me is that darkness than my own darkness. It has been told to me that you bring one who saw my son die. Is this uncouth child he?"

"He is," said Gandalf. "One of the twain. The other is with Théoden of Rohan and may come after. Halflings they are, as you see, yet this is not he of whom the omens spoke. But I ask that you would forgive him his earlier passion, Lord Steward. Despite his size, he has full the heart of any Man or Elf and cannot bear the thought of a lady in distress. 'Twas only his fear for the lady's safety that made him speak so swiftly and so unguarded."

"Doubtless we all fear for the lady's safety - or rather, for those foolish enough to capture her," drawled Denethor. Neville's grandmother (and now, it seemed, Glorfindel's _aunt_) had left her indelible mark even on the stern ruler himself, and his comment produced a rather strange noise from Glorfindel; half growl of anger, half strangled laugh. The Steward's deep eyes landed once more on Pippin. "You and I shall talk soon on other matters of import, Master Hobbit. But for the moment, I must direct my attention to the matter at hand: the location of Mistress Longbottom."

Barely had he said her name when Gandalf recognised the danger. Time seemed to still; Pippin's jaw dropped in astonishment, and the White Wizard mentally kicked himself for not explaining the existence of Augusta Longbottom to the hobbit during the flight from Isengard. To be fair, he _had_ intended to do it - albeit later that day. But not in his wildest imaginings could he have thought to arrive in Minas Tirith to such a situation, where earlier knowledge of Neville's grandmother would have been more beneficial.

And now it was too late!

All these thoughts passed through his mind in a split-second - far too short a time for him to take remedial action. To his horror, Pippin recovered swiftly and, even as Gandalf swung his staff at the hobbit's ankle in warning, the youth spoke.

"Mistress Longbottom? Did you say Mistress _Longbottom_ … ouch!"

The staff made contact with hobbit flesh, but the damage was already done. If Denethor had been curious about Pippin before, then the Steward was captivated by him now. Leaning forward in his seat, Denethor's dark eyes fixed intently on his quarry and appraised him from head to (throbbing) foot.

"The name is familiar to you, Master Hobbit?"

Pippin threw a cautious glance at Gandalf, but the wizard didn't dare return it. Instead, he stared straight ahead, his expression as stony as the tall pillars on either side of the Hall of Kings.

"Why do you look to Mithrandir for counsel? You do not need him to tell you what you already know, surely?"

"No … of course not. I … er …" spluttered Pippin nervously, and Gandalf resisted the overwhelming impulse to drop his hand into his head and shake it. The foolish youth was about to reveal the existence of another Longbottom, which would lead to questions about Neville's presence in Middle-earth.

And that would lead to Aragorn!

He could not allow that to happen! It was time to see if any of that Tookish creativity had rubbed off on him …

"Peregrin _is_ familiar with the name, son of Ecthelion," he revealed, taking everyone (especially Pippin) by surprise. "I believe he met the lady in Rivendell, where he was a guest of late."

Even from this distance, he could see the calculating gleam in the Steward's eye as Denethor studied him carefully. But Gandalf did not allow the man's dark gaze to unnerve him and returned the stare evenly.

"Indeed?" said Denethor slowly. "How strange. For not two minutes since did I hear the Halfling refute all knowledge of the lady."

Gandalf, Glorfindel and Pippin blanched collectively.

Annoyed that the Steward had heard Pippin's earlier remark after all, Gandalf opened his mouth to try and remedy the situation, but he was foiled by Pippin's quick tongue once again.

"If you please, my Lord, but Gandalf's mistaken," said the hobbit, refusing to look in the (fuming) wizard's direction. "I met a lot of ladies in Rivendell, it's true. I met a lot of people who _looked_ like ladies, too - but they turned out to be elvish Men …"

Astonishingly, Denethor laughed, a short, sharp, dry cackle that caught everyone off guard (except Glorfindel, who was too busy seething at Pippin in affront).

"But I never met a Lady Longbottom," continued Pippin (pointedly ignoring the elf lord). "Then again, I did spend rather a lot of time exploring the countryside. And the kitchens. Which led to a lot of eating. And drinking. Not that I drank _all_ the time, of course. But you can imagine how busy I was, so it's not surprising that I missed her. "

"Is that so?" enquired the Steward smoothly, arching a suspicious brow at first Gandalf, then Glorfindel.

"Oh, yes. That's so," chirped the young Took.

"Then perhaps you could explain to me why the name struck you as so familiar, Master Hobbit!" said Denethor in a dangerously silky tone (which was completely lost on the hobbit, but not on the others).

The hobbit nodded enthusiastically, and the ancient Maia closed his eyes in dread.

"It's because of this," announced the hobbit proudly, sticking his hand in his breeches pocket and pulling out a leather pouch. He untied the cord and tipped some of the contents onto one small hand, which he waved cheerily in Denethor's direction. "Longbottom leaf! It's only the best pipe-weed in the Shire - although my cousin Merry would probably argue with that. He thinks Old Toby's better. But then, he _is_ a Brandybuck, and Brandybucks are famous for being a bit, well, cracked, as Gaffer Gamgee would say. They swim and wear boots, after all - very unusual behaviour for Hobbits - so you can't really believe anything they say. As for me; I prefer Longbottom Leaf, myself. So I was surprised to hear you say the name my Lord because, well, who would have thought there would be an Elf named after it?"

Pippin's eyes sparkled with such youthful excitement, and he spoke with such guileless innocence, that even the keen intellect of Gondor's ruler would have been hard pressed to sense the lie. Gandalf opened his eyes and sighed in relief. Longbottom Leaf, indeed! Ah, Denethor may think himself clever, but it would take a cleverer man than even he to out-Took a Took.

He smothered a grin as he glanced down at the beaming hobbit, very pleased that his young companion had managed to grasp the subtlety of the situation and amend his answer in time to save it. Denethor did not seem to share the sentiment; he remained stiff-backed in his marble chair, eyeing both Pippin and his pouch of pipe-weed in nothing short of disdain.

"I wonder if you would hold your leaf in quite the same regard if you learned that the lady in question is no more elvish than you or I, Master Hobbit. She is but a mere female of Men with links to the Firstborn through the fortunate happenstance of wedlock, or so her nephew claims." Cold dark eyes slid briefly to Glorfindel, whose jaw clenched angrily at the not-so-subtle insinuation. "Yet, this is neither the time nor the place for such trivial ponderings. The safe recovery of Mistress Longbottom is of far more import than your provincial narrative on pipe-weed and Brandybucks. Therefore, unless you have a cunning plan to ensure the lady's swift return to her nephew, I suggest that you practice silence until I address you further."

"If the recovery of my aunt is of such import to the Steward of Gondor," interjected a clearly impatient Glorfindel, "then I strongly petition him for additional troops to facilitate it." He took a bold step towards the seated ruler; one of the guards flanking him twitched visibly and made ready to intercept lest the elf launch himself at his host, but Denethor raised a lazy hand to belay the deed and allowed the blond lord to proceed uninterrupted. "Such definitive action would earn him the gratitude of not only myself, but also the heightened esteem of the Lord of Imladris, of whom my aunt is a close personal friend."

"Yet he did not think twice about allowing the lady in question to traverse lands which are on the brink of war," drawled the Steward coolly. "And so I must wonder if his esteem for her is quite as high as you believe it to be."

"Elrond is not my aunt's father; he is her friend. As such he may offer her counsel, but he cannot stop her from journeying wherever she pleases. Nor would he deny her the right to do so. She is a grown woman with a mind of her own, is she not? And whether or nay Gondor finds itself in a state of war, who can say assuredly that it was one of _Sauron's_ agents who abducted her? None! What we can say, is that it seems most likely that one of your own citizens is responsible for her disappearance. As such, the duty of care now falls to you, son of Ecthelion. And thus I ask you one more time: will you issue more troops to search the entire City or nay?"

Glorfindel's demand rang through the Hall of Kings and Gandalf had to wonder at his boldness: he had rarely seen the elf in such a passion of emotion. But would the Steward succumb to his request, or be too quick to take offence at the accusation in his tone, and have him evicted from the Hall (then the city proper) forthwith?

If Denethor had been about to throw the elf from the city (whether by gate or wall), they never found out. At precisely that moment there came a resounding _boom! _as the doors to the Hall swung forcibly open and half a dozen guards marched their way through them.

Or rather, _struggled_ their way through them.

Sensing a potential development, all eyes swung toward the Hall's vestibule and tracked the guards progress as they wrestled with a tall bearded man. A prisoner, or so it seemed. And his cries of protest echoed through the Hall as he tried fruitlessly to pull his arms free and escape his many captors. There was a sudden cry of recognition from Glorfindel who, without so much as waiting for them to close the distance, turned on his heels and flew toward the new arrivals. When the prisoner spotted the furious elven lord barrelling towards him, he blanched and his struggles became more fierce, but it was to no avail. Within seconds, Glorfindel had the terrified man by his throat.

"Desist immediately!" cried Denethor, rising angrily from his seat.

"Glorfindel! Do not harm him!" barked Gandalf, moving swiftly towards the gurgling prisoner.

"You ask too much of me, Mithrandir! I fail to see why I should _not _harm him when he is responsible for my aunt's disappearance!" hissed the elf, who was batting away frantic guards whilst simultaneously dangling the unluckiest man in Minas Tirith several inches off the floor.

Somewhere behind him, Gandalf heard Pippin gasp in fright at the elf lord's ire. "We need him alive, mellon nin," he urged, blocking the hobbit's view of the proceedings with his back.

Gondor's ruler was less considerate in his plea. "I am the Steward of this realm, lord Elf! If any have the right to mete out punishment in the Hall of Kings, it is I. Let him be this instant, or you may find yourself becoming intimately familiar with the cold charms of my dungeons!"

But it was neither Denethor's threat nor the hobbit's fearful gasps that secured the prisoner's release in the end, it was Gandalf's reasoning. "Come, Glorfindel! Be reasonable. We have no hope of discovering the Lady Longbottom's whereabouts if he cannot talk - _or_ breathe!"

Reluctantly, the elf loosened his grip and the dark-haired man dropped to the floor with a dull thud, where he began to draw shaky breaths before scrambling back to the safety of the guards he had so recently tried to escape.

"Where is my aunt?" demanded the glowering elf in a dangerously soft voice.

"Patience, Master Elf," said Denethor. "You will allow my captain to make his report before you begin demanding answers from my prisoner! Captain Galathain?"

A grizzled guard of middling years stepped away from the new arrivals and, ignoring the scowling elf, addressed his lord. "My Lord Steward," he began with a smart bow to Denethor, "we located this Man, Hargil of the Third Royal Guard, lurking outside a buttery on the second level not an hour ago. He ought to have been on guard by the City gates yester-eve, yet his captain reported soon after midnight that he had absconded from his duties."

"Indeed?" said the Steward, arching a grey brow at the prisoner. "Dereliction of duty is a grave offence at any time, Master Hargil, let alone in times such as these."

Hargil trembled visibly under his ruler's disapproving glare. Galathain continued.

"I recognised him immediately, lord, and saw fit to question his desertion; but when we approached, he attempted to flee. We managed to apprehend him, as you see, and he claimed that he was merely partaking of an early morning stroll because he could not find his rest. But I did not believe him; he bears an ill gleam in his eye common to deceivers."

The prisoner began to shake his head in protest, but a glare from Denethor (and a growl from Glorfindel) silenced him. Gandalf and Pippin waited expectantly for the captain to continue.

"My suspicion of him grew when he claimed that his captain had despatched him to bring report to the Tower Hall of an intruder. He stated that he had merely stopped to rest but for a moment. A lie, of course. I immediately suspected his involvement in the disappearance of the elderly mistress. He denied any knowledge and claimed he had not visited the inn where she was last seen …"

"He lies!" snapped Glorfindel impatiently. "I saw him there myself with another Man. One who shares his ill-favoured look!"

"Patience, Glorfindel. Let the captain finish his report," advised Gandalf raising a warning hand. The elf bit his tongue, allowing Galathain to proceed.

"The prisoner's gaze was drawn often to the residence above the buttery during questioning. My suspicions grew and I demanded to know what drew his interest. But before he could answer, there was the most unearthly scream."

Glorfindel tensed, ready to launch himself at the prisoner once more, but this time the captain held up a hand.

"Fear not, lord Elf - it was no womanly cry. 'Twas the scream of a Man in terror."

At that, the elf paused. "A Man?"

Galathain nodded in confirmation. "Yes, lord. A Man. And a more chilling sound I have not heard. It drew our attention to the residence above where - to our astonishment - light filled the darkness! Not the warmth of light from a bedside candle, nay; rather, it was light the colour of fireworks. Blue and yellow, red and violet …"

An insistent tug at Gandalf's robe made him glance down to find Pippin staring at him with wide eyes.

"That sounds like Neville's magic!" hissed the hobbit excitedly, throwing a cautious look at the Steward to make sure he hadn't overheard. "Neville and Molly make colours like that when they cast their spells! But they're not here! Do you think …"

"Hush, Pippin! Speak no more of it lest the Steward's sharp ears catch your words."

"But Gandalf, who is this woman? Is she a Witch like Mo …"

A sharp tap to Pippin's toes with his heavy staff silenced any further enquiries and Gandalf flashed him a dark scowl (for good measure). Satisfied that the hobbit would behave himself, his gaze sought and found Glorfindel. Ah, as he had suspected: the elf wore a suspiciously nervous expression. And, if he was not very much mistaken, Gandalf would wager his last pouch of pipe-weed that the elf and his 'aunt' had kept her magical prowess a secret from the Steward of Gondor. Denethor would not take kindly to that ...

Hmm. That could prove useful.

_Very_ useful.

The beginnings of a most devious plan began to take shape in the wizard's mind; one that would little enamour him to Neville's grandmother - if she were ever returned to them.

"Screams and lights?" demanded Denethor breaking Gandalf's train of thought. He pulled himself free of them and watched the Steward frown at his captain.

"Indeed, my Lord. Dreadful screams, and many coloured lights - they lit up the buttery most unnaturally! My Men and I prepared to charge the building when … when …"

The captain paused, his face bearing a look of lingering incredulity.

"When what?" asked Denethor softly. Dangerously. Gandalf did not miss Glorfindel's nervous swallow.

"When a Man flew crashed the window and landed on the awning above the buttery, my Lord," finished Galathain.

"I see little unusual about that," stated Glorfindel rather stiffly. "Perhaps he was pushed in a struggle …"

But Galathain cut him off. "Indeed you are correct, lord Elf. The act of falling through the window was not unusual in and of itself. What _was_ unusual was what we discovered when he slipped from the yawning and landed at our feet."

"And what was that, Captain Galathain?" demanded Denethor impatiently.

Galathain swallowed. "A hand, my Lord. A disembodied hand. Not the Man's own, for his were both intact. Nay, this hand bore no form to accompany it, or ever had, I suspect. Worse yet, it bore upon its palm a set of lips! Lips that berated its victim even as it struck him repeatedly about the face and head. I have never seen the like of it!"

"A hand with _lips_, you claim?" drawled Denethor doubtfully.

A vigorous nod of the head. "I swear it is true, Lord Denethor! Even now it follows him and my guards to the Houses of Healing, striking and shouting all the way."

"Oh, really?" piped Pippin, who had forgotten his aching foot and was staring in utmost fascination at Galathain. "What was it saying?"

The captain blinked at the hobbit in astonishment but, hearing no objection from his lord, indulged the curious youth.

"'Take_ that_, you shocking scoundrel'," he said.

"'And _that_, you disgraceful deviant'," supplied a deep voice behind him. All eyes turned to the other guards as, one by one, they eagerly revealed what they had heard.

"'And have some of that,_ too_, you repulsive reprobate'."

"'And a little bit of _that_, you nefarious nitwit'."

"'And plenty of _that_, you grim-faced granny-grabber'."

"'And most especially some of_ that_, you horrible, ham-fisted halfwit'."

"Ooh. That's good!" exclaimed (a very impressed) Pippin. 'Horrible, ham-fisted halfwit'! I like it!"

"'Twas a most irate hand, my Lord," finished Galathain as Gandalf prepared to smack hobbit foot with wizard staff yet again. "Yet not as irate as the one who burst forth from the buttery seconds later."

"Aunt Augusta! You have secured her safety?" demanded Glorfindel, grabbing Galathain's forearm. "Why have you tarried so long in saying so? Where is she?"

"Lord Elf, release my captain immediately!" barked Denethor, rising from his chair and glowering at his impassioned guest until he dropped the man's arm. "You spoke of one 'bursting' from the buttery, Captain. Fascinating, is it not, that my Elven guest has been so ready to assume it was his aunt? Still, let us put speculation aside and deal now with fact: are you indeed referring to Mistress Longbottom?"

"Yes, my Lord. 'Twas indeed the lady herself. And she did indeed burst through the door - with enough violence to shatter it completely."

The Steward's eyes narrowed suspiciously at the news; Glorfindel valiantly maintained an aura of silent dignity when his calculating gaze raked over him. Gandalf, however, could not have been more pleased at the development.

_Very_ pleased indeed.

"So violently? How intriguing. Particularly as Mistress Longbottom is a woman of such advanced years and seeming frailty." Denethor turned his haughty face to the captain, his voice now crisp with command. "Were you able to ascertain the cause of her inexplicable strength?"

Galathain nodded once. "When the door shattered, my guards advanced cautiously, expecting attack at any moment. But it was no fearsome enemy that flew at us; it was the lady we had been searching for these past hours. Furthermore, she bore a manner of short staff from which issued the coloured light we witnessed earlier - and she used it to drive my Men from her person. They have suffered no serious ills, for she desisted upon realising we meant to aid her. But, my Lord Steward; the lady, who even now is on her way to the this Hall under company of my Men, can be naught other than a Sorceress! It was she who blasted both her abductor from his own abode, and the heavy oak door from its sturdy frame. It was she who magicked the terrible hand which even now continues to assail har former captor!"

Dead silence reigned for several minutes after the captain's proclamation. Denethor was glaring at his regal elven guest with barely concealed hostility and, for a brief moment, Gandalf suspected the Steward might actually launch himself over the steps and into the elf's abdomen (which he would have found vastly entertaining).

For his part, Glorfindel was standing straight-backed and doing his very best to appear as innocent as a newborn; though, had he not possessed millennia of experience perfecting the look, he may not have fooled the Steward for very long. As it was, Denethor's right foot was already hovering over the top step when the tension was broken by yet another newcomer.

With a_ very_ loud voice.

"Take your hands off me this instant, young man! I am perfectly able to walk unaided!"

Two dozen heads swivelled back to the vestibule as two guards frogmarched a very old (and very small) lady in a flowing green dress into the chamber. Her iron-grey hair was dishevelled and she bore distinct finger marks across her wrinkled cheek but, despite her recent ordeal, her blue eyes sparkled defiantly.

"_Aunt Augusta!_"

Glorfindel flew across the room and caught the lady in a warm embrace, twirling her several feet off the ground in his joy (though, unlike poor Hargil, not by her throat).

"Good heavens! If one more man grabs me tonight, I'll banish his bits into oblivion. Put me down, Archibald!"

"Forgive me, Aunt," gushed Glorfindel happily, placing her safely on the ground once more. Her escorts moved in immediately to flank her, then retreated quickly when he visibly bristled. One of the guards stepped away discreetly and Gandalf watched with interest as he approached the dais for a hushed conversation with Denethor, though Glorfindel and his aunt paid them no heed.

"I will see you avenged for this," continued the elf grimly, gently fingering her marked face (she promptly swatted his hand away). "When I returned to the inn and you were gone, with no sign of you other than your shawl and an overturned glass … I cannot begin to tell you how I berated myself for abandoning you!"

"Nonsense! You did not abandon me; you left to … retrieve my hat. It's hardly your fault that those scallywags abducted me! Anyway, I managed to free myself eventually, so all's well that ends well." Her sharp eyes swept the Hall, and she frowned briefly at the Steward before her eyes came to rest upon the newcomers .

"I see I have arrived at an inconvenient time," said the little Green Witch, nodding in greeting. "I had no idea there were hobbits in Minas Tirith. Good day to you young ma … I mean, young fellow."

Pippin practically bounced with enthusiasm. "And good day to you, Lady Longbottom! I am Peregrin Took, at your service and your family's!"

Surprise registered on her face. "You know who I am? Ah, of course. No doubt you have heard Archibald and the Steward discussing my whereabouts. Well, there's no need to stand on ceremony, young fellow. There's no such person as 'Lady' Longbottom. Mrs Longbottom will do nicely. And who is your … friend?"

Her eyes fixed on Gandalf; he stifled a smile when they narrowed suspiciously and travelled from his long white hair, down his beard, and over the old grey cloak covering his pristine robes. No doubt he put her in mind of a former adversary.

His guess was correct. Not two seconds later:

"I must say, you look rather familiar. Have we met before?"

"There will be time for introductions later, Mistress Longbottom," said a frosty voice, drawing the company's attention back to the Steward who had, by this time, dismissed the guard and retaken his seat. He was now studying the elderly woman and her nephew with cool speculation. "As for your claim that all is well … I must disagree. All is most certainly not 'well'. Indeed, from the reports I have had thus far, I declare that all is far from well."

Augusta Longbottom frowned in confusion, but Glorfindel, who had already been subject to the burgeoning suspicion of the old ruler, clenched his jaw irately.

"No doubt you are referring to the heavy-handed manner used by your soldiers to deliver me to my nephew," stated the witch brusquely, completely unperturbed by the tone of her host's voice. She stared back at him with an imperious arch of her thin brow. "They frog-marched me up here as if I were some sort of raving Malfoy, instead of an old woman who has just been liberated from a most trying ordeal! Disgraceful! There was no call for such rough treatment! But, I will be happy to accept their apology - or yours in your capacity as their superior officer - and we shall say no more about it afterwards."

Stifling a chuckle, Gandalf had to admire her nerve. There were few people who knew the Steward's temper (or knew _of_ the Steward's temper) and would dare address the austere man with such crisp expectation, let alone demand an apology from him. There could be no doubt that Neville's grandmother was a very spirited woman indeed!

Much to Denethor's obvious displeasure: he stiffened in his seat and eyed her coldly.

"It is not your place to demand an apology from the Steward of Gondor, Madam," he barked, making Pippin (who had been studying the strange old lady in complete fascination) flinch. "Not when you have partaken of a most grievous crime against him!"

"Crime? Against you? Don't be so ridiculous; I haven't even touched you!" she retorted evenly. "In case it has escaped your attention, the only crime here is the one so recently committed against me by _your_ citizens."

"A crime indeed, Madam - I do not refute that. Yet perhaps they have inadvertently done their Steward a service with their dishonourable deed. Were it not for their foolishness, I may never have known you for what you are: a Sorceress!"

Barely had the elderly Steward spoken these words when, sensing an opportunity, the prisoner began to struggle in his guards' grip. "What we did was in your service, my Lord!" he cried, breaking free to throw himself on his knees at the foot of the stairs. "They were spying on you! Calathor and I both heard them!"

"Spying? Nonsense! We were doing no such thing. My nephew and I were simply discussing the impending hostilities with that idiot Sauron."

"Lies, my Lord! She lies! I heard myself as she derided your attempts to prevent their coup with but four thousand Men!"

"There was no talk of a coup, traitor!" interjected Glorfindel, bristling with outrage.

But Hargil paid him no heed. "There was, Lord Steward! They spoke of a plan to overthrow your noble rule and position one of their own in your stead! An Elven lord from the West, they claim, who will smite you down before advancing on Mordor!"

"Lord Elrond? Smite the Steward of Gondor? Stuff and nonsense!" snapped the Green Witch.

"Deception and untruths!" stated a glowering Glorfindel. "No Elven lord that I know of - and I know many - possesses enough forces to commit to such a course, even if your claim were true."

"Yet you do not deny that the thought may have crossed their minds," drawled Denethor, leaning back in his chair.

The elf seethed. "For centuries have the Elven realms of Arda been at peace with Gondor and her people. You know this. Or is your love of power now so great that you replace friendship with suspicion, based on no more than the lies of this traitor?" He pointed scornfully at the kneeling prisoner. "Yes; traitor I name him! For who do you suppose allowed the agents of Mordor into your City to spy for the Dark Lord, and to slaughter innocents? One of your own guards!"

"He lies, Lord! …"

"Silence, Master Hargil! I will brook no more falsehoods from your lips."

"My Lord, you must not believe …"

Denethor sprang up angrily when the prisoner ignored his order.

"Did I not order you to be silent?" he growled dangerously, looming over the kneeling man. "You have already dishonoured your homeland by allying yourself with her enemies! Do you believe it has not already occurred to me that the agents of the Dark Lord have friends here? Such is the guard on the City gates that there can be no other explanation for the ease of their infiltration. And you, Hargil of the Third Royal Guard, have been guilty of dereliction of duty this night to partake in the abduction of a guest of this Court. If you are bold enough for that, than I must presume you are bold enough for treachery!"

"No, my Lord. Never!" cried Hargil, scrabbling at Denethor's feet. Two guards moved instantly to haul him back by the arms.

"Five Gondorians were slain by Mordor's agents before they were caught - five of _your own_ people!" boomed the Steward. His disdain echoed ominously around the Hall, leading Gandalf to suspect that Hargil's days might very well be numbered. "I shall summon your captain this very morning, Master Hargil, and if he gives me any reason to suspect that you were involved with their deaths - however incidentally - then you will receive just payment for your treachery. For the present, all I require from you is that you explain to me why you and this … Calathor … abducted Mistress Longbottom."

Hargil's face was ashen; he trembled so violently between the guards that they steadied each of his shoulders with a large hand. "We … we thought the Sorceress planned to remove you from office with ill magic, my Lo …"

"Even now you lie! Sorceress or nay, there have been no reports of magical power from her before you and your cohort absconded from the inn with her in tow! As Lord of this City, I would have heard of them! So, once again I ask you - and I caution you strongly against falsehood: why did you abduct a guest of your Steward?"

But Hargil did not reply.

"Hah! You see? He can't answer that without incriminating himself!" exclaimed the Green Witch victoriously. "But I can answer it! For some idiotic reason, he and his disgraceful friend thought I was in possession of information that they could sell to one of their contacts - information that would allow passage of more of Sauron's agents into Minas Tirith."

"And how do you know this, madam?" queried Denethor sharply, turning to his irate guest.

She rolled her eyes. "What do you think that horrible fellow and I were doing, locked up in that disgusting hovel all this time? Knitting jumpers? No! He was grilling me about our meeting; about troop numbers and positioning - about your plans for the defence of this city! When I refused to respond he threatened to sell me straight to the master of Mordor himself. This sorry lot here," she jerked a finger at Hargil, " left after five minutes to act as a lookout in case Archibald showed up. Claimed he couldn't bear to watch an old woman getting slapped."

Glorfindel flushed. "You abandoned my aunt to physical brutality at the hands of another?"

Before he could launch himself at the prisoner, Gandalf stepped forward and clasped his shoulder. "Peace, my friend. The lady is now well. Hargil will pay for his crimes soon enough."

"Indeed he shall," agreed Denethor. "And let us hope he finds the price for his actions a reasonable one. Guards, remove him to the lower dungeons!"

The proclamation was enough to send Hargil into a frenzy, and he screamed for mercy all the way down the Hall, through the vestibule, and out the main doors. But his protests could not sway the iron will of the Steward of Gondor and thus, with the traitor's cries dwindling in the background, Denethor turned that same iron will towards his guests.

Gandalf also turned his mind: towards his plan. He was safe in the knowledge that his host had not quite spent all his fury …

And he was not disappointed. Denethor eased himself into his black chair of office, his calculating eyes fastening themselves firmly back onto Glorfindel and his 'aunt '.

"Now it only remains for me to deal with the remaining offenders," he announced darkly.

"Offenders? Gandalf, what does he mean?" whispered Pippin, tugging nervously at Gandalf's robe. The wizard motioned for silence.

"Offenders? Surely you don't still believe that useless little man's claims that we were plotting a coup?" scoffed the elderly witch. She swapped an amused look with her elvish companion.

"Should I not? There is a grain of truth in every falsehood."

"Don't be absurd. I told you before: we're here on holiday."

"And I recall replying that your timing for such frivolous pleasures was questionable. Minas Tirith is a breath away from full-scale assault, yet you deem it a fit time to while away your days in - how did you name it? - ah, yes: _seeing the sights_."

Sarcasm dripped from the Steward's voice. Pippin threw another troubled look up at Gandalf, but the wizard merely squeezed his shoulder comfortingly, unwilling to face the hobbit's wide-eyed innocence when, very shortly, he would utter words that would confuse and hurt him.

"The timing is unfortunate, I'll grant you that," agreed the witch with a sniff, "but that hardly makes it questionable."

"Do not insult my intelligence madam!" barked the Steward so suddenly that even Gandalf flinched. "I am descended from the noble lords of Númenor itself, and their gifts run nearly true in my veins! So if you believe for one second that I will allow you to play a farce with me for very much longer, then you will taste my wrath! You have been unmasked this very night as a Sorceress!"

The Green Witch threw her shoulders back and glared at the Steward with equal haughtiness.

"I am not a sorceress, my good man. I am a witch! And I don't remember ever denying it to you or anyone else; so where exactly is the crime in that?"

"Sorceress, Witch … I care not. The crime lies not in any supposed denial of it on your part; but in your actions since, beginning with your deliberate intent to withhold that information from the Steward of Gondor. You made no mention of your powers when last we spoke!"

"I didn't want to boast," she retorted primly, casually smoothing her ruffled dress. "And it's not the first thing that springs to mind when I meet new people. I mean, _really_; I can't exactly go around saying 'Good day, my name is Augusta Longbottom; grandmother, scholar, five-time winner of Yorkshire's Most Glorious Garden competition, Senior Mugwump for the North West and witch extraordinaire. How very nice to meet you'. I wouldn't want to give you an inferiority complex, now would I?"

Both Gandalf and Pippin guffawed in amusement, earning them a glare from Denethor.

"You test my patience, madam," said the very irked Steward. "I care little for your skill with lore or gardens. I speak now of your evasiveness in proclaiming yourself as a Witch - something you had ample opportunity to do during the course of our first conversation. Particularly when we spoke of the doomed Nazgûl."

Glorfindel interceded. "The lady has already informed you that she had naught to do with that. And, Witch or nay, that has not changed."

One grey brow lifted itself disdainfully. "So you claim, Lord Archibald. Or should I say Lord Glorfindel? That is how Mithrandir addressed you earlier, is it not?"

The wizard winced. What a foolish slip for him to have made. Fortunately, Glorfindel was ever the quick thinker. Without missing a beat, the elf nodded.

"Mithrandir has always addressed me thus. But my aunt prefers my middle name. I am happy to indulge her."

"Yes, that much is plain. You _indulged_ her all the way to the brink of Mordor. Nevertheless, do not suppose I am more ready to believe you than she. I have not forgotten that you were also present at our meeting, nor that you also omitted to mention her particular gifts. Perhaps she had naught to do with the fall of Sauron's servant - or perhaps she did. And with the assistance of one so mighty among the Firstborn, such a scenario is highly possible, is it not? Either way, it is indeed strange that your aunt arrived in my City shortly after the Nazgûl's destruction, claiming to be 'on holiday'; and not two days later she is abducted by the Dark Lord's spies." He leaned forward in his chair to scowl at them. "The very same spies who have slain five of my people in seeking out this new threat to their master."

He glared at witch and elf in accusation, but it was not they who answered. It was the lone wizard.

"No power of Elf, Man or Maia is capable of such a feat, son of Ecthelion," he said honestly (which was completely true). "Whoever, or whatever, is responsible for the death of the Black Rider, they are not present in your Hall today."

"And am I to take the word of Mithrandir on that?" scoffed the Steward, swinging his head towards Gandalf, who raised his brows in surprise at the man's tone. "The very one who turned my younger son from warrior to fool with his Wizard's ways? The very one who rises from eternal slumber to plague me once more, instead of treading the Halls of Mandos as he aught?"

"Wizard's ways? What wizard? I thought there weren't any wizards left!" exclaimed the Green Witch in confusion.

Sharp blue eyes travelled the width of the dais before settling on Gandalf's grubby grey cloak, then widened in disbelief when they finally spied the long white staff he bore in his right hand. But Gandalf had no time for introductions; he offered her little more than a brief nod of confirmation before returning his narrowed gaze to the dais.

"You do Faramir a disservice by slighting him thus, son of Ecthelion," he stated gruffly. "The art of the warrior is not limited to his ability with a sword: skill of the mind is as important to battle as is the wielding of arms. You have not forgotten this, surely?"

His words made the Steward flush.

"It is not for you to tell me what I have forgotten, Wizard. Ever are you wont to question my authority over my own sons. But I will stand for it no longer!"

"I question not your authority, Steward. I merely regret your opinion on this matter."

Denethor reclined in his chair and assessed Gandalf as he clutched his staff of office with long, pale fingers.

"Your regret would be better served elsewhere," he said coldly before facing his other guests. "As for you, Mistress Longbottom: you came to this Hall and elicited my favour under questionable circumstances."

The Green Witch bristled. "Now wait just one minute …"

But her host was not interested in her protestations.

"You stood in the Halls of Kings and led me to believe that you were no more than an ignorant traveller who sought to enjoy the pleasures of my City, madam. But that is a falsehood, is it not? For you are a Witch. An Istar. And Istari do not travel abroad for such frivolous reasons. You came to Gondor, knowing that she is on the brink of war. You stood on the same spot you inhabit now and listened as I lamented the fate of my people, yet did not once think to offer your services in her protection. Instead, you decided to see the sights of Minas Tirith before they were 'overrun with Orcs', as you so boldly stated. I find your callous disregard for my City abhorrent - most especially as it is your power to aid her!"

"Well of course I'll help if the worst happens …" she began, but was quickly cut off.

"Furthermore, your unwillingness to declare your true nature leads me to believe that you have deceived me on other matters."

"Such as?"

"Aragog, son of Halbarad."

Gandalf's brow furrowed. Aragog? Did he mean _Aragorn_? He clenched his jaw. If Denethor had news of Aragorn …

But son of _Halbarad_? What in Arda was he talking about?

He had no time to ponder as Augusta took a bold step forward and met the Steward's gaze evenly.

"I am perfectly willing to swear a Wizard's Oath to you that Aragog remains in the Forest, and has absolutely no intention of usurping you from your little black chair. Would that satisfy you?" demanded the old lady with such fervour that even Gandalf would have been convinced (if he had not known for certain that Halbarad had no son named Aragog. Or Aragorn, for that matter).

Her declaration did not have the effect of appeasing the Steward of Gondor much.

"The hour is late for wizardly oaths, madam. I grow tired of your duplicitous manner and witchly ploys. From the moment of your arrival in my Court, robed in slatternly garments and speaking out of turn, you roused my suspicion. I would have thrown you from this City, had not an Elf lord of Imladris vouched for your character …"

"What elf lord?" demanded the livid witch, cutting him off. "Why the deuce is everyone in New Zealand so obsessed with house-elves? And who the devil are you calling duplicitous, you glorified janitor?"

It was all Gandalf could do not to snort aloud. Glorified janitor? Arda, the lady had nerves of mithril to insult the Steward of Gondor thus (even if Denethor _had _insulted her first)!

Her outbreak infuriated Denethor. "Enough! I am no janitor, madam! I am the Steward of Gondor, and I will brook no further argument from you on this or any other matter! And yes: I call you duplicitous, for that you are; you lied by omission when first we met. Furthermore, you obtained information regarding Gondor's defences by illicit means - and I am most interested to find how you achieved this."

Denethor's eyes slid to Glorfindel suspiciously, but it was the elf's 'aunt' who answered.

"I used magic to elicit it from one of your guards," she confessed, though Gandalf saw her crossing her fingers behind her back. Glorfindel looked at her sharply, but the Steward missed it, so intent was he on her admission.

"Why?"

"Well, you kept harping on about 'the evil of Mordor knocking at the city gates'. I simply wanted to assure myself that you were able to defend Minas Tirith while I was still here."

"You are lying."

"The last man who called me a liar had boils on his bits for a week. I am a Longbottom. I do _not_ lie."

All three guards by the Steward's chair surreptitiously lowered their shields to cover their particulars (just in case).

Denethor was unfazed. "And the identity of this guard?"

"Oh,_ I_ don't know. They all look the same to me in those ridiculous costumes. Anyway, the poor fellow would have no idea what I did to him because I made sure he had no memory of it afterwards. Merlin! For all I know, it could have been one of those chaps behind you."

The three guards paled in collective horror when their lord swung around and scrutinised them carefully, and only when he returned his attention to the witch did the colour return to their faces.

"So that is what you claim: you bewitched one of my guards and took information from him which you could not gain by honest means. Information which you then saw fit to freely discuss in a tavern normally frequented by only the most unsavoury characters. It comes not as a surprise that you gained the attention of the Enemy!"

He rose from his chair and took a long stride towards the defiant woman and her elven companion.

"Because of your tactless remarks, thirty Men from my best company were required to search of over half this City attempting to isolate your location. Do you imagine that they have naught better to do, in these days of war, than search for a Witch who is too powerless to prevent her own capture?"

The Green Witch flushed. "I was not powerless! I was, er, temporarily indisposed," she hissed furiously.

Denethor surveyed her in disdain. "I can smell the cause of your 'indisposition' from here. Dorwinion wine, if I am not much mistaken. No respectable Gondorian woman would ever indulge on such a potent draught to the point of intoxication."

Pippin shifted uncomfortably next to Gandalf at the marked antagonism of his host. For his part, the wizard was biding his time. It would not be long now …

"My aunt's respectability is above reproach," growled Glorfindel irately. "She was not acquainted with the vintage; and, had she had the chance to dine before her abduction, its effect on her would have been negligible."

The jaded ruler was losing patience with his guests. "The hour is late - or rather, it is early," he drawled, throwing an ironic look at one of the deep windows in the Hall of Kings which would soon know the kiss of dawn's early light. "Fatigue lies as heavy on my eyes as the threat of war lies on my mind, Lord Archibald. If I do not find some respite soon, I shall be ill-prepared to deal further with the machinations of Mordor. Yet, as you see, I must also take counsel with Mithrandir, who no doubt also bears tidings that will plague what little rest I may find this night. So now that she has been recovered safely, your aunt's tolerance for vintage wine is of little concern to me. What does concern me, is the lady's conduct thus far. Indeed, were Gondor not now crawling with enemies, I would bid her leave it forthwith, that her loose tongue not endanger its citizens any further. Fortunately for you both, I am not so merciless as to abandon an old woman to denizens of Sauron, regardless of her mafical prowess. Yet - "

He paused, his staff of office tapping idly against his right leg as he surveyed the glowering granny. Gandalf watched him carefully, sensing that the Steward may just be about to save him the trouble of executing his own plan to spare Middle Earth from a dreadful fate.

"- neither can I allow her to roam the streets of Minas Tirith providing intelligence to potential spies."

Both Glorfindel and his 'aunt' stiffened at these words. Denethor turned on his heel and retook the Steward's seat with all the regal pomp he could muster (which was a lot). His dark eyes glittered while he readied to pronounce his judgement on the little old woman in green.

"Mistress Augusta Longbottom," he began in a cold voice, "not two days since, you stood before the Steward of this land and omitted to declare yourself as a Witch. You obtained information on the complement and possible strategies of Gondor's forces by the use of your unnatural arts, and proceeded to divulge them, however unintentionally, to her enemies. This foolish act led to your capture by the Dark Lord Sauron's agents and, were it not for the timely arrival of my soldiers, you may very well have given them even more valuable information which would have assured the downfall of my City. Furthermore, you wilfully attacked the very same guards issued to secure your release."

The Green Witch flushed. "That, my good man, is as preposterous a list of accusations as I have ever heard! The only 'witchcraft' I used was to free myself and I most certainly did not wilfully attack your soldiers. I acted only in self-defence because I didn't realise who they were!"

"That is irrelevant. It is for your deception, and all the troubles which followed it, than I now order you confined to your quarters for the duration of your stay. There you will remain until circumstance allows you safe passage from Minas Tirith - or until death takes us all!"

Pippin gasped, though not as loudly as the lady herself (and hers was more outrage than shock). Glorfindel immediately protested the treatment of 'Elrond, Lord of Imladris' good friend', though Gandalf did not hear all of the affronted elf's declarations; his mind was otherwise occupied.

As pleased as he was to have the Green Witch confined (for the greater good of Middle Earth, of course), it was not quite what he had anticipated. He needed her out of the picture _altogether_: simply placing her under house arrest would provide the female Istar with far too many opportunities for an easy escape, if the city fell under attack. Which it would, sooner or later. If she did escape her confinement, he did not doubt for a second that she would rush to Gondor's defence (after she dealt with its crusty old Steward). And if that happened …

The vision of her reunion with Neville, which he had seen whilst recovering in Lothlórien, flashed through his mind, and he recalled the ramifications that meeting may have for Middle Earth.

He would not let that happen!

Even as he mulled the situation over Glorfindel's protests were still ringing through the Hall, bolstered by some very choice words from his aunt (several of which Gandalf had never heard before). And yet again, Pippin tugged frantically on his grey cloak (he would have to check it for holes later).

"Do something, Gandalf," hissed the hobbit, whose green eyes were wide with dismay. "She's Neville's kin! She could help us. You can't let the Steward confine a Witch to quarters!"

Gandalf winced at the young Took's pleading tone. Why, oh, why had he not listened to Pippin when the hobbit suggested waiting outside while he spoke with the Steward? That way, he would not have had to worry about the tender-hearted youth becoming so rapidly enthralled with (yet another) otherworldly Istar. Now, Gandalf would have to disappoint his little companion as well.

Sighing, he patted the hobbit's shoulder, saying only, "For once, Peregrin Took, you and I are in full agreement."

Then, steeling himself to become the most unpopular person in the Hall of Kings (apart from the Steward himself), Gandalf cleared his throat noisily and took a step towards the dais.

"Lord Denethor, if I may?" he began politely. Denethor watched him suspiciously, but did not object, which the White Wizard took as consent to proceed. "I do not think it is in the best interests of Gondor to confine this lady to her quarters."

Surprise was etched in the face of the Green Witch, but she gave him a nod of approval nonetheless. Glorfindel sighed in relief and, directly behind him, Gandalf could feel the hopeful gaze of Pippin boring into his back. The only person who was not happy to hear his words was (unsurprisingly) Denethor himself.

"Ever are you wont to presume what is in the best interests of Gondor, Mithrandir," growled Denethor in displeasure. "Speak your counsel, if you must; but do not expect it to carry any weight with her Steward. I have little need of a Wizard's words to tell me how these lands are best served."

If the situation had not been so precarious, Gandalf would have happily whacked the arrogant man with the heavy end of his staff. But the situation _was _precarious, so he kept his wrath in check (for the moment).

"As you wish. Then let me only say this: the lady that you seek to inter is a Witch. I do not believe that a mere house will be quite enough to hold her."

It was an unmistakable suggestion to alter her accommodation for something deeper down in the city, and the implication was not lost on the lord of the land. Astonishment was clear on Denethor's face.

And it was also evident in the renewed protests of everyone else.

"What the deuce are you all about, you silly man?" exclaimed Neville's grandmother, whirling on him furiously. "Are you actually suggesting that he lock me up with the very same people who abducted me?"

"Mithrandir, what are you saying?" demanded a very confused Glorfindel. "Perhaps you are not aware, but the Lady Augusta is held in high regard in Imladris. She is an agent of the Light! And very dear to me!"

The elf's distress stabbed him like a knife, but it was Pippin's heated cry that twisted it in his gut.

"But, Gandalf! You said she could help us - that she shouldn't be locked up! You said, 'For once, Peregrin Took, you and I are in full agreement' - that's what you said!"

"I agreed that she should not be confined to quarters, Peregrin Took!" he responded gruffly, ashamed of the hurt he was causing. "I did not say she should not be 'locked up'. If the Steward of Gondor believes Augusta Longbottom to be a threat to his people in any way, it is his prerogative to deal with her accordingly - and my duty to advise him on how best to achieve that, given her powers!"

The Green Witch was livid, as he expected. What he did not expect, was the reason _why_ she was livid.

"Gandalf? Did he call you _Gandalf? _But you're supposed to be dead! What the devil are you all about, allowing your friends to mourn you, while you skip of to foreign parts simply to harass innocent old women? I know all about you, you know! Oh, yes - Bilbo told me _everything!_"

Gandalf frowned at the disdain in her voice. What had Bilbo told her? What had the old hobbit said to her that was making her scowl at _him_ in such disapproval? Her bright blue eyes swung from the wizard to the Steward, and he soon found out.

"This man," she barked, pointing a knobbly finger at him in disapproval, "this sorry excuse for a wizard - he can't even Apparate - this man is a lunatic! A. Very. Bad. Influence!" She punctuated each word with a stab of her bony digit. "Are you aware that his dubious influence turned an honest, law-abiding Muggle into a desperate criminal? He seduced a perfectly respectable little fellow into a life of crime! Yes! Dragged him and seven dwarves - oh, no that was Snow White - _thirteen _dwarves, all the way to - oh what's the blasted place called again? Murky Wood? - just so they could steal for him! And what's more, once he got them there, he abandoned them! Left them to the mercy of gigantic spiders and a flesh-eating dragon. Yes! That's right!_ A flesh-eating dragon_. Didn't even bother to try and save them when it attacked! And now it appears he has spread some ridiculous rumour of his own demise throughout the lands - trying to avoid the long arm of the law, no doubt. Disgraceful! So you can't believe anything he tells you. Why, he's probably got his eye on your crown jewels, I should think. Why do you think he brought his little friend along with him?"

She paused in her astonishing tirade, took a deep breath and turned her grey head to offer Pippin some advice.

"If you've any sense, young man, you'll get as far away from Gandalf the Ghastly as you possibly can. You're _exactly_ the type of little chap he likes to do his dirty work for him!"

Pippin blinked stupidly. "Er, thank you, Mrs Longbottom."

Gandalf had the urge to laugh at her description of Bilbo's Adventure, which she had most certainly heard from Bilbo himself during her stay in Rivendell (and then completely misinterpreted. Sort of). "Contrary to what you may believe, I did not lead Bilbo into a life a crime, Mrs Longbottom. Nor did I abandon him to his fate. I merely stumbled upon him one day and informed him that I could not find anyone to share in an adventure. He offered his services."

"Poppycock! You vandalised his door with magic, and the very next morning, thirteen dwarves came knocking on it and ate him out of house and home! But not before both they and you pressured him into leaving the safety of it to join your ridiculous venture. Why, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!"

Oh. Couched like that, she had a point. They _had_ rather pressurised poor Bilbo …

Not that he would admit it.

"You were not present at the time, good lady, and we did not 'pressure' Bilbo into anything. He volunteered. Furthermore he was offered a very fair price for his troubles."

She snorted. "'A very fair price', indeed! He used a good amount of that to buy back all his possessions, or don't you know that they were in the middle of being auctioned off when he returned home? Or that ever since, most of his fellow citizens have been sneering at him, and calling him 'Mad Baggins' behind his back? If it weren't for what little he had left of that 'very fair price', they may very well have ostracised him. He has almost completely lost their respect, no thanks to you! In fact, the only person whose reputation in the Shire is held in lower esteem than his, is your own! A 'disturber of the peace', I believe most hobbits call you; and I have to say that I quite agree with them. You're certainly disturbing _mine_!"

Was it his imagination, or did her hand twitch to her side? But what for …?

Great galloping Mearas! She was hunting for her odd little staff - she must have it in her pocket, for he had not seen her carry it into the chamber by hand. Was she actually going to curse him? Here? In the Hall of Kings?

His own hand rose reflexively to the old grey cloak he wore and (a rather alarmed) Gandalf pulled it tighter across his chest. His blissfully _flat _chest. But before he discovered what her intentions were, a strange, rattling bark cut through the sudden tension.

Denethor was laughing.

"Ah, Mithrandir! I see even you are not immune to the Witch's wrath," he cried, highly amused. Gandalf dropped his hand and clenched his jaw in annoyance. "Take heart! You need not fear it this day. I know not why you are so eager to have the lady banished to the dungeons, but this is one time when I will heed your counsel, and gladly."

"You cannot mean that!" cried Glorfindel in horror. "I will not allow it!"

Denethor scowled at the elf. "You have little choice in the matter, Archibald of Imladris unless you wish to join her. Which would be a fitting punishment for your part in her deception. You know how dire our peril is, yet you also did not offer Gondor your services; though you were as eager to speculate on her military as your aunt. I advise you to practice silence from henceforth, before you also incur my wrath!"

The elf squared his shoulders and, for one moment, Gandalf thought he was going to do something foolish. Dismay filled him. Glorfindel would be no use to the war effort locked in the city dungeons! And besides, he would never have the chance to explain the necessity of his deeds to the stately elf, if he was.

Luckily, the Green Witch saved the day by discreetly swatting the elf's back. Glorfindel's golden head bowed as he looked down at her, and when next he raised it, Gandalf recognised his (probably former) friend's subtle expression of frustrated acceptance (though Denethor did not, fortunately).

"I require your staff of power, Mistress Longbottom," said the Steward suddenly, transferring his gaze from elf to witch.

She sniffed at him. "You _require_ an immediate psychological examination, if you think I'll surrender my wand so easily."

"A sigh-co what?" asked Pippin (rather unwisely).

"It means he needs his head examined, young man. And, as it happens, I know several medi-wizards who are proficient in that particular field. I would be happy to recommend one or two."

Pippin stifled a grin.

"Your impertinence never ceases to astound me, Mistress Longbottom," growled the Steward. "But if you believe I will allow you to retain your weapon whilst you are a guest in my dungeons, you err."

The thought of Denethor handling a staff of power sat as uneasily with the White Wizard as it did with the Green Witch, even though he knew the man would never be able to wield it.

"It would be wiser to entrust the lady's staff into my possession, for the moment," he said; an offer which Denethor reluctantly accepted, but which the lady refused.

"Certainly not! I will not surrender my wand to a dubious delinquent - and the very person who suggested my summary internment in the dungeons, too! I demand to see a solicitor. Or a barrister. Or _any_ sort of legal representation!" she snapped in outrage. "Even those wretched Death Eaters will get fairer trial than this! But me? Oh, no! And what exactly is my crime? Not mentioning that I'm a witch. It is quite beyond absurd!"

"Your crime, madam, is that you _withheld_ information on your nature from the Steward of Gondor whilst _obtaining_ information on his forces!" interjected Denethor, who had once more risen from his seat. "You bewitched my guard and abused my hospitality in an infamous manner. Furthermore, in a state of inebriation most unbecoming of a woman, you revealed certain elements of said defence to Gondor's enemies! And were it not for you timely rescue by my soldiers - whom you later attacked without provocation - you may very well have revealed all your stolen information and led my City to her ruin!"

She flushed. "Nonsense! I had no more information to give. And I certainly wouldn't have told that stupid fellow anything else, even if I did. Why do you think he kept slapping me?"

Denethor eyes were black with ire. "I care not. I have pronounced your sentence and now you will accept it. All that remains now is for me to give you this counsel, which you would be wise to accept: your nephew is, at present, guilty of no more than a slight indiscretion - and of his unhappy misfortune in relatives. Therefore, I see no reason to detain him. He is free to move about the City at his own pleasure, if pleasure may be found here in such times. However -"

He descended the dais to face his unhappy guest directly.

"- if you do not surrender your staff to Mithrandir this instant, I shall not hesitate to ensure that your nephew joins you in your new accommodations."

The chamber fell deathly silent. Even Pippin refrained from unwise comments (for which Gandalf was mightily thankful) while all waited to see how she would react to Denethor's ultimatum. After several long seconds, Augusta Longbottom moved a hand towards the skirt of her fetching green dress and produced her wand. Denethor nodded to his guards and they warily flanked her, ready to ensure her surrender of the magical object.

Relief flooded Gandalf and he moved to accept it. But her hand flinched slightly as he reached out for the wand, and his bright gaze met her own in question.

"It won't work for you, you know," she said in a stilted voice. "I have surrendered it willingly; so try as you might, you'll be lucky to produce so much as a Stinging hex from it."

Her face was the very picture of defiance, yet there was also something hidden in the depths of her eyes and, despite her valiant attempt, she could not mask it from the ancient wizard. Gandalf recognised it for what it was: anxiety. The reality of parting with her staff was deeply distressing to her. Regret and sympathy warred in his heart at what he was forced to make her do.

"It will be safe in my keeping, Mrs Longbottom. Never shall it know the magic of anyone other than its rightful mistress. Let that be this Wizard's oath to you."

Neville's grandmother huffed. Clearly, she doubted him. "A Wizard's oath is a serious business, Mr Grey. Given your track record, I'm not sure that you have the sense to stick to it. Still, at least the thought of your imminent demise will be of some comfort to me while I'm wallowing in the dungeons."

With that, she finally handed him her wand, and her gaze lingered on it wistfully as his fingers clasped the smooth cylinder of wood. It was an odd feeling, bearing the staff of another Istar - more so because her magic was so different from his. Where his hand touched it, the flesh tingled as if blood were rushing back to it after a prolonged absence. It was not an unpleasant feeling, yet neither was it altogether pleasant. Unwilling to prolong her (or his) discomfort any longer, Gandalf opened his cloak and tucked it into an inside pocket of his robes. When he looked back up, her eyes were still fastened on the snowy garments and he knew she was thinking about the last time she seen such familiar fabric. A feeling of sudden mischief came over him (which he blamed entirely on his exposure to his Tookish companion) and, wishing to lighten her mood with a little levity, he said:

"Ah, I see you have noticed my robes. Yes, you are quite right. I am 'Mr Grey' no longer. I have recently been elevated to the Head of my Order. I am now Mr _White_."

If he had been hoping to convey some secret message that, despite all appearances to the contrary, he was in fact her ally, then Gandalf was sorely disappointed. The Green Witch merely arched an imperious brow and gave him a piece of her mind.

"Yes, well I've met the former Head of your Order, so if you're trying to impress me, you have failed," she sniffed. "What you _have_ done, is prove that only the most spectacular of nincompoops can ever hope to attain such a high office in your silly excuse for a Ministry. Now, if you don't mind, I have a cell waiting for me. I only hope the blasted thing offers more satisfactory sanitation than Orthanc."

And with that, Denethor nodded crisply at the guards to lead her away.

"I shall accompany my aunt as far as I may," announced Glorfindel to his host. It was obvious by his tone that the elf was not asking the Steward's permission. His grey eyes fastened on the old man. "But before I go, know this: any slight you feel that my aunt has committed against Gondor is naught but a product of your own imagination, for she is as honourable a lady as I have ever known. Not once since she entered this City has she conspired to work against either it or you. Indeed, the information obtained from your guard dismayed her so on your people's behalf, that she immediately determined to help them whenever the Enemy strikes. She owes Gondor naught, yet still she would do this. Such is the nobility and valour of the House of Longbottom. And how have you repaid her, son of Ecthelion? With contempt and insult. With suspicion and incarceration. So I tell you now: neither the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower, nor the Lord of Imladris Fair, shall forget this slight. For any slight against her is a slight against them."

Glorfindel turned smartly from his host, his golden cloak whirling about his form. He gave Gandalf one long, searching look that spoke volumes of his hurt and disappointment in him; the Maia tried to convey with his eyes that all was not as it seemed, but the elven lord did not linger further. Without further ado, he stalked after his honorary aunt and the receding guards, leaving a rather bemused Denethor, a very crestfallen Pippin, and a very vexed Gandalf behind him.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Author's Note_: Some dialogue taken directly from The Lord of the Rings, The Return of the King, Book Six, Chapter One: Mias Tirith.

Yes, I'm back. I can't apologise enough for the delay. I can only say that the last two or three months have been very … difficult. The death of my cat seemed to spark a run of bad luck that has barely abated, which sort of sucked all the humour out of me. Nothing too serious (other than Obi Wan Kenobi's demise - may the Force be with her), but still enough to knock me off kilter for a bit.

Whereas I was able to work on some other fics (as a form of distraction), I could not give this, my baby, the attention she deserved. But though I have my doubts about the flow (and certainly the humour) of this chapter, it's time to get back in the saddle and start bringing NQAM to its (hopefully) exciting conclusion. Hopefully, I haven't lost too many readers *sheepish grin*

Thanks for reading, folks,

Kara's Aunty :)


	29. Double Trouble

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. and Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

**Credit: **www dot hp-encyclopedia dot com and www dot Tuckborough dot net,

**Please review - it really _is_ my only reward.**

**Not Quite A Maia**

**Chapter 29**

* * *

_Gap of Rohan_

_Third Age 5th_

Neville, Molly, Aragorn and company departed Isengard barely an hour after Gandalf left with Pippin, keen to return to Rohan as quickly as possible. It had been decided that they would stop first at Helm's Deep to gather what men they could before riding south to Edoras. From there … well, that was yet to be determined.

For many long hours the company rode without rest. It was a beautiful late Winter's day with nary a cloud in the sky, and – though not cold per se – the wind nipped at face and fingers alike due to the hard ride. The snow-capped Misty Mountains were many leagues behind the company, and before them now rose the equally snow-capped peaks of the White Mountains, tall, forbidding and completely breathtaking. Yet they had little effect on the men thundering beside the Isen, who were more concerned with reaching the fords than they were with sightseeing.

Théoden King was at the fore of the company; to his right rode his strapping nephew, and to his left Aragorn bearing Merry before him on Hasufel (the hobbit had spent ages pleading with Molly to be allowed to ride with her on the Cleansweep, and was disappointed when she refused for fear of him falling off and breaking his neck). Neville (whose backside was killing him) clung valiantly to Fæleu (who had not chucked him off yet, but may or may not have been considering it), and next to him Gimli clung equally valiantly to Legolas (yet still looked _very_ fierce indeed). No one spoke as they rode, and there would have been little point to it while the wind whistled so fiercely in their ears.

Not that Neville cared for conversation anyway: he was far too busy pondering over four little words.

_Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!_

Where in the name of Merlin had Gandalf got them from?

Of course, he could only have them from one source: Professor Dumbledore. But what did that mean? That the ghost of Dumbledore was floating about in the Void somewhere, impressing the recently departed with his extraordinary vernacular? Or had the Valar returned him to life, as they had Gandalf? Was Dumbledore back in his office at Hogwarts? Or had they sent him here instead, and he was even now waiting patiently for Neville outside Edoras, dressed in one of his mad wizarding robes, ready to join the fight against Sauron (which, though hugely unlikely, would be _very_ handy)?

_Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!_

Irritation flooded him.

Why the ruddy heck hadn't Gandalf waited another five minutes to explain himself before riding off into the sunset? Why did he have to be so annoyingly cryptic?

In fact, he thought as he tipped his head down to ward off the bite of the wind, being cryptic was something most of his new Middle Earth friends seemed to take pleasure in.

Take Galadriel, for instance, the mistress of the cryptic one-liner, She answered the same ruddy question with both 'yes' and 'no', then recited him spooky dream-poetry that had his nerves jangling for hours afterwards! All this rubbish about being 'beware' of this, that and the next thing. All this _'If fairness engulfs thee and fear holds thee still …' _and the alarmingly vague explanations afterwards. Could she have been any more ambiguous? Why not just say 'Nev, watch your back, and here's the reason why …'?

Then there was Éomer, who had overheard Neville threatening to turn Fæleu into Crup food if the nag didn't behave herself during the ride to Helm's Deep. Though Éomer hadn't a clue what a Crup was, the threat had been enough for him to confront Neville.

"_I was only kidding! I'd never turn her into dog food. We're mates,_" the teenager had declared with a forced laugh as he attempted a fond pat to the horse's neck (which had almost killed him).

"_Mates?_" demanded his blond companion, his eyes narrowing dangerously.

"_Er, yeah. Mates. Best mates, in fact. I love her, really._"

He really didn't.

But the explanation had only served to infuriate the hulking Rohirrim, and it was a very perplexed (and very alarmed) Neville that found himself dragged from Fæleu's side and shoved up against one of the damaged pillars in Isengard's ruined courtyard.

"_Love her or not, as you wish. But heed my warning well: if I find you mounting aught other than your mate's back, then – Wizard or nay – I will slay you where you stand!_"

With that Éomer stomped off, leaving a very bemused Neville to grin sheepishly at his watching friends while he returned to his horse and mounted her back (where else?).

Finally, Aragorn. Before the party had left Isengard, the Ranger pulled him aside for a quick chat.

"_Your confrontation with Sauron may have turned out much worse than it did were it not for your quick thinking. Many would have quailed or been broken when faced with his wrath. Not so you. Instead, you have managed to lighten the inevitable burden of forces Minas Tirith shall be faced with in the very near future, and for this you shall know the gratitude of the King of Gondor, if he ever returns. You and all your kin!"_

All his kin? What in the name of Merlin's saggy left plum did that mean? He was the only one of his kin in Middle Earth and – unless the Valar were thinking of unleashing Gran or (worse) poor Uncle Algie on the forces of Mordor - so it would remain. Unless of course Aragorn was planning a trip to Yorkshire when the war was over? Which was impossible. The Void wasn't a ruddy terminal where Middle-earthlings could catch a bus at one end and hop off at England. And just as well: if Aragorn dropped by for tea and scones, Neville's life would be numbered in seconds once Gran realised where he had been (and a mere week after their own war ended, too). Then again, she might just be so pleased to have royalty perched on her living room couch that she wouldn't care. She might even bin the now redundant Charles and Diana tea service and replace it with Aragorn and Arwen ones instead!

If only …

"What are you thinking about, lad?" shouted Gimli, pulling Neville from his ruminations. The bushy dwarf – who was trying to distract himself from the obvious discomfort of his very bumpy seat on Arod – had to shout to be heard over the thunder of hooves.

"Crockery," replied Neville, shouting also. "I'm thinking about crockery.

Gimli snorted. "Crockery? Bah. Wizards! What strange creatures you all are – regardless of which world you hail from!"

Grinning, the teenager returned his attention to the road ahead, waving briefly at Molly who passed him on her Cleansweep to check that they weren't being followed from behind, and the company of twenty five riders continued their long, hard journey. The River Isen rushed on nearby, the roar of its water drowned out by the thunder of horses' hooves. Up ahead, the White Mountains loomed ever nearer the longer they travelled, and to their right the Sun began slowly sinking into the western horizon. By this time, Neville's backside was absolutely killing him and he would happily have sacrificed his left arm just to be able to dismount and rub some life back into it. If only he had thought to use a Cushioning charm before they left Isengard!

He was debating whether or not to ask if they could stop for a moment when the company arrived at the more southerly reaches of the Enedwaith. Small curls of smoke still rose from the blackened pyres of enemy corpses on the western bank of the river, and the smell of charred flesh hung yet in the air. Neville spared Gimli a glance, but the dwarf was apparently not in the mood to enjoy Eau de Crispy Orc: instead he bowed when Théoden, Aragorn, and the rest of the Riders paused to pay their respects to the fallen Rohirrim at mass graves dug by the earthen forts. Then they were off, crossing the water to the little island in the midst of the Fords of Isen, pausing again to bow at more freshly dug graves (including the mound of poor Prince Théodred, by which Théoden lingered a few moments with his head bent in sorrow).

Not long after they crossed the river into Rohan proper, a call was heard at the company's back. Neville cricked his neck to find a scout thundering past him toward the vanguard, and his king, followed swiftly by Molly on her Cleansweep.

"Hello, dear! How's the arm?"

"Fine," he lied (the prolonged galloping was jolting it painfully, but he'd eat his own foot before he swallowed another disgusting potion from her first aid kit). "What's going on, Molly?"

"Riders behind us. Quite a few, from what I can tell. Can't stop to elaborate, I'm afraid!" she called, whizzing past him. He watched her flying off then chanced a look over his shoulder, though he could see nothing in the blackness, nor hear any hoof beats discernible from his own company's mounts. Within minutes, though, he heard Théoden call out for a halt, and all twenty five riders slowed and turned, drawing their deadly spears. Aragorn quickly deposited Merry on the ground before springing from Hasufel's back and unsheathing Andúril.

Once Fæleu had drawn to a halt, Neville slithered to the ground and drew his wand, glad for the chance to exercise his legs but also wary about a possible threat. He was just edging forward into the darkness, readying to take a stance in case the very colourful Saruman had managed to scrounge up a ragtag unit of orcs which he'd sent racing after them, when Éomer thundered past on Firefoot, followed closely by his esquire.

"Come, Neville Longbottom!" he cried. "We may need your magic ere the hour is up!"

Obediently, the teenager remounted and followed with all due haste. The sinking Moon was obscured by a great sailing cloud, but suddenly it rode out clear again. Hoofbeats sounded loudly now, and everyone saw the dark shapes coming toward them swiftly on the path from the fords. Moonlight glinted here and there off the strangers' spears, and though the number of riders could not be told, they were definitely no fewer than Théoden's company.

Fifty paces from the oncomers Éomer stopped.

"Halt! Halt! Who rides in Rohan?"

Heir, squire and wizard watched expectantly, and the riders ahead came to a sudden stop. Silence followed, then a horseman could be seen dismounting. It was a good sign, in Neville's opinion. An orc – or any enemy - would hardly dismount and introduce itself before commencing the slaughter of its foes. Still, he wasn't willing to take the chance, and so he raised his wand, just in case.

The horseless stranger drew closer on foot, holding a white palm outwards in a sign of peace. Nevertheless, the king's men behind gripped their weapons, all as cautious as Neville ahead. At ten paces from the king's heir, the man stopped, until all that could be seen was his dark standing shadow. Then a clear voice rang out.

"Rohan? Rohan did you say? That is a glad word. We seek that land in haste from long afar."

"You have found it," replied Éomer warily. "When you crossed the fords yonder you entered it. But it is the realm of Théoden the King. None ride here save by his leave. Who are you and what is your haste?"

A light breeze tickled at Neville's neck then and he looked back to find Molly hovering above him, wand in hand, eyes glued to the figure ahead.

"Halbarad _Dúnadan_, Ranger of the North I am," cried the man. "We seek one Aragorn son of Arathorn, and we heard that he was in Rohan."

There was a flurry of activity behind Neville, and he could feel caution turning swiftly to wonder as the Rohirrim cried out in surprise. No one was more surprised than Aragorn.

"And you have found him also!" cried the ranger, dashing up from the vanguard. He passed the three men at the fore, his face a picture of happiness as he rushed to meet his colleague. "Halbarad! Of all joys this is the least expected!"

Aragorn threw himself at his fellow ranger and they man-hugged in a big, big way. Crikey, they were practically snogging!

"Isn't it lovely?" trilled Molly, beaming at the happy couple as if she were a freshly baked mother-in-law.

Resisting the urge to vomit and/or to suggest to the amorous pair that they get themselves a room (because it would surely cost him his tongue, if not his head), Neville waited patiently while they finished their greetings. Soon his friend pulled the new arrival forward, parading him for their inspection, and the young wizard found himself looking at a black-cloaked man as tall, dark-haired and lordly as Aragorn himself. They might have been brothers, if Neville didn't know any better.

"All is well," Aragorn called out to the Rohirrim, who had edged forward curiously. "Here are some of my own kin from the far land where I dwelt. But why they come, and how many they be, Halbarad shall tell us."

Kin? That explained the resemblance. Made the almost-snogfest a tad pervy, though, but these Middle-earthlings _were_ a touchy feely bunch, that much Neville had noted.

The newcomer, Halbarad, edged closer and raised his voice for the benefit of the Rohirrim. "I have thirty with me," he explained, pointing at the shadowy figures behind him. "That is all of our kindred that could be gathered in haste; but the brethren Elladan and Elrohir have ridden with us, desiring to go to the war. We rode as swiftly as we might when the summons came."

Summons? What summons? wondered Neville in confusion. Had Aragorn owled them? Or eagled them? Or whatever the Middle Earth equivalent was?

"Thirty more sounds good to us, dear. Why, you've doubled our numbers already!"

Halbarad did a double-take when he sought the source of the feminine voice and caught sight of Molly - illuminated by the moonlight - floating on a broomstick in mid-air. "By the Valar!" he cried aloud.

Aragorn laughed. "Fear not, my friend. 'Tis but the Lady Molly atop her own trusty steed, and every bit as swift and faithful as our own it is. My lady, here is Halbarad, my kin and friend, and with him are the Grey Company yonder." He gestured to the shadows with a wave of his hand.

Molly waved at Halbarad cheerily. "Hello, dear. Lovely to meet you. Any friend of Aragorn's is a friend of mine. And that goes for all you boys back there, too!" she called, shouting out to the riders behind him. The Rohirrim laughed, well used to her endearing matronly manner.

Returning to the topic at hand – the mysterious appearance of the Grey Company – Aragorn once again addressed his friend. "I did not summon you, save only in wish." he said, and Neville grew even more perplexed.

"Nay, it came not from you but from Mithrandir while in Imladris," clarified Halbarad. "He bade us ride for Rohan ere he left for the South."

Well that explained it: Aragorn's wish had been granted by Arda's very own Good Fairy (otherwise known as Gandalf). Neville chuckled quietly at the thought of the White Wizard zipping about on giant fairy wings, granting wishes to those he found deserving. Which, come to think of it, was _exactly_ what Gandalf was doing, rhetorically speaking ...

"Then that was barely three days since, if Gandalf's account is accurate. And I have no reason to doubt it." This from Théoden, who had nudged his horse forward and looked at Halbarad with an expression on his face that spoke volumes about how impressed he was. "Mighty indeed are the steeds of the North to have carried you so far in such a short time."

"Indeed they are, lord. Almost as mighty as those of Rohan!" proclaimed Halbarad, whose gaze rose to meet that of the king. "Gladly would I allow Théoden, King of the Horse-lords, to inspect my own noble steed Vorondwen when next we stop, if that is his desire."

Looking pleased, Théoden nodded.

"But come!" said Aragorn, turning to his cousin once more. "Such happy moments must be postponed until later. You find us riding in haste and danger. Let all my kinsmen ride with us now, if the king will give his leave."

Théoden consented readily. "It is well!" he said to the heir of Isildur. "If these kinsmen be in any way like to yourself, my lord Aragorn, thirty such knights will be a strength that cannot be counted by heads."

With that, the riders set out again. Neville and Molly joined Legolas, Gimli and Éomer (now sporting Merry before him) in the vanguard with Théoden, whilst Aragorn rode behind with the mysterious Grey Company. Long they rode into the night, and Neville's thoughts were divided now between Gandalf and the Dúnedain, until finally he was so fatigued that he could barely think at all.

Dawn was just breaking when at last the riders rode up the Deeping Coombe, through the breach in the Dike, and toward the causeway which crossed the Deeping-stream. There they dismounted and led their steeds up the causeway. Soon after, Neville – completely and utterly exhausted – stumbled his way through the ruin of Helms Gate and up the narrow walkway next to the mighty wall. He found an empty alcove therein, possibly used by one of their archers during the earlier battle, threw down his bedroll, and was soon curled up and fast asleep.

**XXX**

_Helm's Deep_

_6th March 3019_

For a few hours only Neville slept, plagued by bizarre dreams of Gandalf the White (looking very odd in midnight blue robes) conducting Aragorn, Halbarad and the faceless Grey Company in a rendition of _'Hogwarts, Hogwarts, hoggy, warty Hogwarts; such a dreadful song; glorifying hogs and warts; 'tis just completely wrong!'; _Legolas, Gimli and Éomer (all in Hufflepuff colours) spent the entire song yelling _'You're crap! You're completely crap!'_ at the choristers whilst chucking Sherbet Lemons at them. Dumbledore the Deep Purple sat on a magnificent throne nearby, smoking Longbottom Leaf (made with _real_ Longbottoms) and tutting at everyone in mild disapproval.

Neville was _very_ glad when Molly woke him up.

"I'm sorry dear, but we'll be moving out in a while and Théoden wants us to breakfast with him first. I think he was a bit mortified to hear you'd been left sleeping by the Deeping Wall instead of in one of the guest rooms up in the Hornburg. I was going to wake you up earlier and suggest you move, but you looked so peaceful that it would've been a shame to disturb you."

Sitting up, he rubbed his eyes. "Théoden's got nothing to be embarrassed about," he yawned. "I chose to sleep here. I was just too tired to be bothered with the fuss of walking up the stairs and waiting around politely to be shown to a bedroom. Besides, I was comfortable enough."

"That's nice, dear. How's you arm?"

Neville flexed it and winced. It was still rather stiff and sore, truth be told. Seeing his expression, Molly fished out her first aid kit, opened it, and produced a vial, which she shoved into his hand. Grimacing, he closed his eyes and swallowed it.

"Yeuch. Why does medicine always taste like a dragon's backside?" he choked in disgust, forgetting for a moment he was speaking to Ron's mother.

"Tasted many dragons backsides have you?" she retorted lightning-quick, reminding him strongly of Ginny. He chuckled as he handed her back the empty vial.

"Did you sleep up in the castle?"

"Yes. Quite a nice room, too, considering Helm's Deep is more of strategic outpost than a royal residence. Not that I could sleep well, funnily enough. I think I'm so used to sleeping outdoors now, or in the tent, that anything civilised seems … odd. Does that sound strange?"

It didn't, actually. He was getting quite used to the outdoor lifestyle himself. The thought of a proper bedroom seemed almost foreign to him, now.

"Aren't you tired still? Haven't you had your breakfast yet?" he enquired, rising and clearing away his bedroll.

Molly shook her flame-haired head. "I've never been a big sleeper, dear. Especially not with a family to raise and a household to run. There always seems to be so much to do, and so little time in which to get it done! As it is, I've been in the Glittering Caves since I woke up earlier this morning. There are still a lot of bones to splint and wounds to redress. A lot of poor young men who needed their hands holding, too. Some of them didn't make it, I'm afraid."

Neville was sorry to hear it, and particularly sorry that Molly had put herself through such difficulty considering she was still mourning the loss of her own son.

Feeling unsure of what to say, he offered her an awkward smile.

"I'm sure they were grateful for a mother's comfort at the end."

She sniffed. "Not that much of a comfort. _I_ wasn't their mother, so it's not the same. As it is, their bodies won't even be returned to their mums and dads for a proper burial."

Although true, this was more out of necessity than anything else. With war underway and another battle likely soon, there was neither the time nor the resources to return so many dead sons to grieving parents. Instead, Théoden had ordered that all those who had fallen in battle (both Rohirrim and those men of Rohan from the East Dales) or who had perished as a result of their wounds be buried with honour in twin mounds before the Hornburg.

"Their parents will still be grateful that their sons weren't alone in their final moments, Molly; grateful that there was someone there who cared enough to hold their sons hands and soothe them. I'll bet they'd thank you for it, if they could."

He could have sworn her eyes glistened, and her tone when she spoke was subdued. "I don't want thanks. I just want sons to stop dying."

"I know, Molly. I want that, too."

Neville watched helplessly as she bustled about the tiny alcove, trying to distract herself from her maudlin thoughts by looking for things to straighten or tidy. Finding nothing, she gave a massive sniff, shook her head, and waved her wand instead. A towel, jug and bowl appeared on the minuscule ledge.

"Well, then. Let's get you washed before breakfast, eh?"

Let's? As in 'let us'? Did she intend to _help him_? The teenager gulped. As ready as he was to do anything that would help her get over the awkward moment, he drew the line at stripping off in front of her.

"I'll wait in the walkway for you, dear, and then we can go to breakfast together," she smiled bravely, conjuring a curtain as she left to give him some privacy.

Relief and gratitude flooded him, and Neville chuckled while he finished his ablutions and brushed his teeth.

Ten minutes later, as they were walking down the causeway towards the stairwell that would lead them up to the castle, Legolas and Gimli crossed through the ruined Gate.

"Yoohoo! Legolas! Gimli! Over here, dears!" called Molly, waving unnecessarily wildly to catch their attention.

"Fair morn to you, Lady Molly, young Neville!" said Legolas as he and Gimli joined them.

"Sister, lad," acknowledged the bushy dwarf, nodding at them in greeting. Molly beamed.

"We're just heading up for some breakfast. Won't you join us?" said the matronly witch.

"Aye. We are hungry indeed after our morning exertions and could use the sustenance."

"What exertions?" asked Neville curiously as he fell into step beside his dwarven friend.

"We have been overseeing the beginning of the reconstruction of Helm's Wall. Or rather, Gimli has been overseeing it. I myself merely stood by helplessly and watched. Elves are not renowned for their stonework."

"But your archery skills are beyond compare," said Neville generously, and the elf smiled.

"Beyond compare indeed, when they are aware enough to aim and shoot their arrows. Did you know, lad, that he felled but one sorry orc before fainting like a maiden?"

"'Twas over forty, dwarf!" exclaimed Legolas hotly.

"Twas over forty_ after_ you recovered, not before."

Gimli grinned up at him smugly, his eyes flashing brighter than his shiny corslet, and even Legolas' affronted protestations could not prevent the rumble of laughter from escaping him. And so it continued during breakfast, with the dwarf extolling to all the virtues of his magical axe versus the frailty of Mirkwood 'princesses', while a furious Legolas enlisted the aid of the very perplexed Éomer in his own defence. Merry buzzed about happily at the top of the table, waving to Neville and Molly in between serving Théoden King, his new liege. There was no sign of Aragorn or his new Grey mates, and thus Neville was unable to ask him what their destination was after Edoras.

"I have not seen him since we arrived," supplied Théoden when Neville enquired as to the Ranger's whereabouts, "though he must be somewhere nearby. It matters not: he will make his appearance ere we leave, of this I am certain."

Unwilling to wait that long, Neville asked the king's permission to be excused, which was duly granted. Leaving Molly in the capable hands of her honorary brother and (the still fuming) Legolas, he left the Hornburg and made his way down the stairwell. He dodged a horse that was being led out onto the field before the Deeping wall, then another, and another.

Whatever Aragorn's plans were, he'd better make them soon if the Rohirrim were already assembling for departure, mused the wizard.

Springing quickly through the crumbled remains of the Gate, Neville stepped onto the causeway and looked around. Though the field before him was devoid of raging enemy forces, the scars of battle were plain to see. Great blackened patches of grass spread out across the field; the two mounds of the fallen soldiers rose before the Hornburg, a grim reminder of the battle two days since.

By the southern cliffs of the vale, a massive crater was being refilled with earth by dirt-streaked Dunlanders in shabby dark tunics, who had been ordered to help repair the damage they had caused before being freed to return to their homes. Over a hundred yards away to the left and right of the causeway, more Dunlanders were loading stonework blasted from the Deeping-gate onto great wains. A massive redheaded Rohirrim stood nearby, a marshal perhaps, though Neville had no idea who he was.

Green cloaked soldiers were dotted everywhere and, at first, Neville thought they were guarding the quasi-prisoners until he realised they were merely doling out water to their former enemies, who were sweating with exertion.

He started walking down the causeway, wondering how he would ever find Aragorn in all this. But he didn't wonder long.

"Neville Longbottom!"

The sound of his friend's call drew Neville's gaze to the left; less than twenty yards away a small group of dark-haired men sat tall and proud upon fine steeds, each armed with spear, bow or sword. Each was cloaked in dark grey and bore a nobility of visage akin to Aragorn himself, though not quite as regal. One held a tall, close-furled black banner in his grip. Before them, on foot, were four men heading his way: Aragorn in his grey-green Lórien cloak, Halbarad in the hooded dark-grey of the Rangers, and two strangers whose faces he couldn't discern, blinded as he was by the reflection of sunlight off their shining mail and silver-grey cloaks.

"Come, son of Longbottom. Allow me to introduce you to my kin."

Neville gulped nervously, keenly aware of the curious gazes of the Grey Company ahead (he was half-expecting them to burst into his dream-version of the Hogwarts school song), and of the expectant ones of Aragorn's posh-looking mates. Deciding to get it over with, he sprang off the edge of the causeway, vastly relieved that he hadn't fallen flat on his face in front of the pseudo-aristocratic equestrians, and met the four halfway.

"Hi, Aragorn. I was just looking for you, actually," he said, wondering why the bearded ranger looked so tired. Mind you, he'd probably been partying with his mates since arriving at Helm's Deep. Neville would bet anything he hadn't even slept yet.

"Then you have found me! The Lady Molly is not with you?" enquired Aragorn, sweeping the field behind Neville expectantly with his bloodshot eyes.

What a daft question. Did it look like she was with him? Wondering how the ranger would react if he said 'Yeah, I've got her stuffed in my back pocket' Neville shook his head in the negative. "She's with Gimli and Legolas. Actually, she's sort of acting as an unofficial referee between them."

Aragorn chuckled. "Ah. Gimli is yet causing strife over Legolas' unfortunate incapacitation during battle, I see. Well, 'tis for the best she keeps watch over them otherwise we may never see our dwarven friend alive again. Introductions may be made to her later. As for you, permit me to introduce you firstly to my cousin, Halbarad. Mighty among the Dúnedain is he!"

Halbarad stepped forward and nodded in greeting, his dark cloak swished as he moved and Neville could now see there was a star-shaped brooch pinned to the left shoulder. Neville lifted his hand to wave in reply, then checked himself. What was he doing, waving at a Ranger standing a mere three feet away?

Embarrassed, he turned it into a tug of his t-shirt instead. "Hello," he said, feeling extremely self-conscious.

"A fair morn to you and yours, son of Longbottom. I have heard much of you from my cousin."

He had? Such as?

Neville spared a worried look at Aragorn, who smiled back at him ambiguously.

What _had _the hairy git been telling his friends? Not that story about the wereworms, hopefully. Or describing the teenager's laughable efforts on a horse. Or – even worse - the story of how he went looking for a private spot to relieve himself at back in Isengard and stumbled upon a like-minded Théoden, hidden behind a rock, grinning in deepest satisfaction as he '_repaid the hospitality of Orthanc with a shower of royal gold_' (the king's own words)?

"Er, hi," he squeaked through nervous chuckles. "So you're Aragorn's cousin are you?"

"You have not heard of me?" Halbarad asked, puzzled. The man shot his younger cousin an offended glare.

Mortified that he might have gotten Aragorn into bother with a possibly testy relation, Neville rushed to repair the damage with some manly compliments.

"Of course he has! He talks about you all the time – it's a bit annoying, actually: 'Halbarad's a top bloke', 'Halbarad's a great swordsman', 'Halbarad's a big hit with the ladies, probably because he's nearly as good-looking as me'."

Both men stared at him incredulously, and then Halbarad bored holes into the side of Aragorn's head with his deep grey eyes.

"So, I am only _nearly_ as 'good-looking' as you, am I?" He returned his gaze to Neville. "Despite what my deluded kin might have told you, I have met many ladies who preferred me to him. Indeed, if he had not met her first, I believe even the beauteous Arwen Undómiel herself might have fallen for my charms."

Aragorn blinked. "I think not. You were already wed, in which case she would still have preferred me."

"Ah, but only because there was no other option available."

Neville, keen to avoid Aragorn's gaze (the heir of Isildur had transferred his scowl from Halbarad to him), laughed the unnaturally high-pitched laugh of the nervous.

"Has he spoken aught of us?" enquired a silvery voice. Its owner stepped forward; a tall elf with long dark hair, strikingly fair features and silvery grey eyes. He was joined by the fourth and final member of Aragorn's party. Youth was on their faces, though age and great wisdom lay in their eyes.

"These are my foster-brothers, Elladan and Elrohir, sons of Elrond of Imladris," said Aragorn belatedly, indicating the pair.

"_Has_ he mentioned us?" repeated Elladan. Or possibly Elrohir. Neville could only shake his head in silent shock at the sight of them, something which caused both elves to round on their human brother.

"You have not spoken of us once?" demanded Elrohir. Or Elladan.

"I have been busy," replied their kin, shifting uncomfortably.

"Not too busy to boast about Halbarad at every given opportunity. You wound us, Estel."

"I was not boasting ..."

"And after all we have taught you. To walk and talk, for example. "

"I was full able to do both when I first arrived in Imladris!" protested Aragorn.

"Ah, but you could not climb a stair without falling down," said one brother.

"And 'pwetty elf housey' does not constitute as speech," scoffed the other. "Furthermore we taught you the art of shooting arrow from bow. True, you are woeful at it, but not from lack of tuition. More a lack of talent. And you learned all you know about swordsmanship from us. And this is how you repay us?"

"Did I not tell you we ought to have had him marked as the ingrate he is?"

"Indeed. Yet branding 'Terror of the West' onto the forehead of a four-year-old child did not seem as appealing then as it does now. I crave your pardon, gwanunig nin."

"You are hereby forgiven. And do not despair, my brother, for all may not be lost. The error may yet be corrected. We are in a fortress of the Horse-lords after all, and if any possess a hot iron or two it would be them. I am certain that – once we explain the situation to our royal host, -Théoden will gladly see us furnished with one."

By this time, Aragorn was looking distinctly uncomfortable under the close scrutiny of his three rather peeved kinsmen. Normally, Neville would have been amused by the banter, perhaps even felt a smidgeon of guilt at dropping him in the cauldron so thoroughly, but this wasn't the case now. In fact, he wasn't even capable of speech, so riveted was he by the sight of Aragorn's striking brothers.

His striking _identical twin_ brothers.

Dread crept over him as he witnessed their easy camaraderie, watched their identical faces flit from mild outrage to accusation to merciless teasing, and he shuddered in horror. If Molly saw them …

He couldn't let that happen! He just _couldn't_! His Guardian had already been sorely tested in the Glittering Caves that morning; if she ran into Aragorn's pin-up brothers without warning, it might tip her over the edge.

Then again, it might not. Who was to say she wouldn't cope admirably? After all, they looked nothing _like_ Fred and George – they weren't even the same race! Molly might think nothing more of it than if she met the Patil twins (who were fraternal, not identical).

Oh, who was he trying to fool? Of _course_ she would be affected! Elladan and Elrohir would be the first set of identical twins she had seen since burying Fred ...

Shifting uneasily, Neville glanced up at the Hornburg above, wondering – hoping – that she was still occupied with Legolas and Gimli. But he couldn't take the chance …

But how to proceed? Perhaps if he struck one of the brethren in the face with a Stinging Hex, à la Hermione? No. It would be death by thirty furious Dúnedain for him before his wand arm fell. How about if he just asked them to keep away from her? Good plan! Hmm. How to couch it so that it didn't sound rude, though? He couldn't just say 'Keep away from Molly' in case they thought it was some kind of threat. Then maybe he should just tell them her dead son was a twin? No good either: Molly would hate it if she knew he'd been discussing her personal pain with complete strangers.

Then again, they weren't all strangers …

Neville stepped forward, interrupting the good-natured teasing of his friend. "Aragorn, can I speak to you for a minute?" he asked urgently.

His tone, so suddenly and notably serious among the banter of the others, brought everyone up short and they stared at him with concern in their eyes.

"Neville, is aught amiss?" asked Aragorn, frowning worriedly.

"I need to speak to you privately. Now."

"You may speak freely in front of my kin, young Wizard, for there are none I trust more."

"Look, I know that your friends … family … are all top blokes, but I really need to speak to you alone. Now. _Right now,_" insisted Neville. He glanced at the others apologetically. "I'm sorry, I really don't mean to be rude, but this is an emergency."

One of the twin brothers smiled gently. "Fear not, young Neville. We are not so easily offended. Go with Aragorn. We shall have a chance to speak at greater length later."

"Thanks. Really, thanks!" he said gratefully, grabbing the confused ranger by the arm and practically dragging him down the pockmarked field. He slowed a hundred yards or so away, and Aragorn, still a little stunned, watched him for a few seconds as he paced back and forth, back and forth, running his hands through his hair. Every now and then Neville would look up at the ruined gate, terrified in case Molly came sauntering out before he could explain himself.

Sensing the boy needed a few seconds to arrange his thoughts, Aragorn leaned against one of the Deeping-wall's many shattered rocks and waited patiently. But Neville was still trying to find a diplomatic way of asking him to keep his brothers away from Molly. Frustrated, he bought himself a few precious minutes by asking about their upcoming journey instead. To Aragorn's credit, if he knew the teenager was playing for time, he did not pull him up for it. Ever patient, he played along, happy to give Neville whatever time he needed until he felt able to broach the subject that was really on his mind.

"Théoden and his men ride to Edoras as you know, and from thence onwards to Minas Tirith. Merry will travel with him."

"Why?"

"'It shall be safer for him than accompanying me on the journey I intend to take: the Paths of the Dead."

Neville listened as he explained the history of the Army of the Dead, of their punishment for betraying Gondor, and how Aragorn intended to hail them to aid in a fight against Sauron's Corsair allies in the southern port city of Pelargir.

"Legolas, Gimli and the Dúnedain shall accompany me."

Okay. One slight flaw …

"What about me and Molly? We're coming with you right?"

"Nay. Your aid is urgently required elsewhere. Now that Sauron believes you have an enemy fleet readying to attack his lands, he will be sending forces of his own up and down the Anduin in an effort to locate and destroy them. And though this may lighten the burden on Minas Tirith if he draws forces away from the host he sends to attack her, it now means that other provinces in the South are in danger."

Good point. Neville flushed a little, realising that it was his fault they were in danger n the first place. Then again, surely Aragorn could just despatch riders to warn them, and they could mobilise their own defences?

These thoughts he voiced aloud.

"Alas, that might not be possible if the brunt of their forces are already mobilising to aid Minas Tirith. They may even be marching toward the White City as we speak, leaving few left to contend with this new threat. And who can guess at the size of hosts the Dark Lord might send to counter your imaginary fleet, or what tactics they might employ? The Enemy is not known for its mercy; they will slay all in their path – even innocents – in order to reach their goal. Nay, Neville: the lords of Dol Amroth, Linhir and other port cities must be warned. Southern Gondor may even need you to fight on her behalf. Will you do this, if I ask it of you?"

Great. Now Neville felt worse than ever for lying so outrageously to Sauron, and he couldn't shake the feeling that that was exactly Aragorn's intention. Not that Neville had had much of a choice at the time. Yet why was his friend laying on the guilt trip so thickly? Was he _trying_ to get rid of him? That made no sense ...

He looked at the ranger, but Aragorn's face held no hint of reproof. Was Neville just imagining it? He rubbed his eyes tiredly, wishing he could go back to bed and sleep for a week. But he couldn't.- he had created this unintended wrinkle, so it was up to him to iron it out. If only he didn't feel so miserable about abandoning the last remnants of the Fellowship he'd been charged to protect!

"You're right. Of course you are. We'll go and warn them – help them, if we must."

Aragorn nodded. "I knew you would not abandon them to their fate, son of Longbottom. You have my gratitude. Halbarad will lead you and Molly both to the southern realms of Gondor – he will apprise you of their cities and lords as you ride."

With that taken care of, there was only one thing left to do. Taking a deep breath, Neville prepared to give his meagre diplomatic talents an airing.

"Aragorn, about your brothers," he began, and his eyes automatically flicked towards the pair further up the field. Suddenly he froze. Legolas and Gimli were heading out of the Deeping-gate with Molly …

And they were heading towards the Grey Company!

"Merlin's bits!" cried the young wizard in alarm, making Aragorn jump. Diplomacy forgotten, Neville raced back up the field, horrified that he had allowed himself to get so distracted when he knew time was short, and desperate to intervene before his Guardian was confronted with a reminder of her worst nightmare.

"Molly! Molly, wait! Molly come here! Come here, now!"

"Neville!" called Aragorn behind him, but the teenager ignored him, powering across the blackened grass as if there were a horde of Dementors at his heels.

"Molly! Wait, please!" Rohirrim and Dunlanders alike paused to wonder in his wake as he stormed past them.

It was no good. Already Halbarad and the twins were walking towards the trio …

He ran and ran, though the distance between them seemed to stretch instead of decreasing, and Neville watched in horror as Molly suddenly stopped in her tracks.

She had seen them. He was too late!

Legolas and Gimli, who were still making their merry way forward to greet the newcomers, paused in confusion when their lady companion seemingly disappeared from their midst, and he could see their faces furrow in concern when they saw she had fallen behind. But they both jumped in shock when she opened her mouth and emitted a keening wail of terrible agony that echoed across the valley. Halbarad, Elladan and Elrohir slammed to a halt, then quickly recovered, joining Legolas and Gimli in the race forward to aid the distraught lady.

"No! Don't go near her!" yelled Neville. "Molly, I'm coming!"

It was no good. The sight of the twins drawing ever closer was just too much. Molly cried out again, shook off the frantic concerns of Legolas and Gimli, and grabbed desperately for her knapsack. Yanking out her Cleansweep, she was already mounting it when Neville was still ten yards away, and then she was zooming away out of reach, leaving hundreds of stunned men gaping in her wake.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Author's Note:_ Some Dialogue and text lifted from Lord of the Rings, Return of the King, Book Five, Chapter 2: _The Passing of the Grey Company._

Well, this is the rewrite version after I accidentally erased the original posted version of Chapter 29 (and I didn't have a back-up. Long story ...). Basically, it's the same as the original, but though I think I've covered all the important points, I've forgotten some things and had to replace them. Hope it doesn't spoil your enjoyment …

I'll check spelling, grammar, continuity, etc later. I'm just anxious to get this up right now so there's not a gaping hole in my story!

Kara's Aunty ;)


	30. Confrontation

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. and Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

**Credit: **www dot hp-encyclopedia dot com and www dot Tuckborough dot net,

**Please review - it really _is_ my only reward.**

**Not Quite A Maia**

**Chapter 30**

* * *

_Helm's Deep _

_Third Age 6__th__ March 3019_

Six pairs of anxious eyes tracked Molly as she flew back down the Deeping-coomb and out of all sight. Her flight had not gone unnoticed by the other warriors either: Rohirrim and Dúnedain alike had heard her cry and many voices raised themselves in concern as to what had triggered her distress. A few gazed speculatively at Neville and his friends, but the teenager was too distracted to pay them much attention.

Had he _really_ been stupid enough to waste precious minutes grilling Aragorn on their next destination when he should have just told him about Fred? He could have avoided this!

He stared down the distant valley in dismay, hoping against hope that it would tell him where she had went, but it was useless. She was gone. But where? Where would a mother go to vent her sorrow in a strange world? There was no cosy Burrow in Arda for Molly to retreat to. No familiar bedroom to hide in while she spent her grief. No gravestone to visit while she mourned the loss of her son. Neville stumbled forward stupidly, peering as far down the ravine as he could, willing it to provide answers. All around him, elves, man and dwarf were clamouring for answers of their own.

"What has happened to her, lad?" demanded Gimli, stalking up to him, axe in hand. "What has caused her such distress?"

The dwarf, having no visible foe to smite in the lady's defence, was fingering his weapon worriedly.

"I do not understand," said Legolas. A frown marred the elf's fair face. "We brought her simply to meet Aragorn's kin; she was most keen to do so. What caused her to flee thus, Neville?"

Neville was too numb to respond. A large hand fell on his shoulder and pulled him around to face the group. He wasn't too surprised to see Aragorn; of course the ranger would have followed him. Probably thought he'd lost the plot or something, dashing away like that.

"What happened?" asked Aragorn gruffly, his grey eyes crinkled with worry.

"That thing I wanted to talk to you about," replied Neville grimly, cursing himself again. "That's what happened."

Six males watched him with a mixture of worry and curiosity, all awaiting further explanation. It seemed there was no avoiding it now; he would have to tell them. Poor Molly had unwittingly forfeited her privacy with her spectacular display of grief: there'd be no way he could fob everyone off with a smart remark now.

The unhappy teenager cast a troubled glance at the now sombre-faced twins. "Remember Molly's son? The one who died in our war?"

Aragorn nodded; the ranger was looking uncharacteristically apprehensive. "Fred, was it not?"

"Yeah. Fred. Well, the thing is, he was an identical twin, too."

Those simple words stirred the group instantly.

"Ai Elbereth!" gasped one of Aragorn's brothers. "That explains your earlier reaction, young Neville!"

The other shook his head regretfully. "Alas! that our first meeting with her should bring the lady such grief! Had we known of her loss, we would never have approached her together as boldly as we did! Goheno nin, young wizard."

The young wizard didn't know what 'goheno nin' meant, but it sounded very much like an apology.

"Don't blame yourselves," he said quickly, keen to put their minds at rest. "It was my fault for dithering about how to approach the subject. I didn't want to offend you by asking you to keep clear of Molly, but I didn't want to compromise Molly's privacy by explaining why. And then I didn't know how to ask Aragorn to keep you away from her without making it sound insulting. If anyone's to blame, it's definitely me."

"This was a time for you to speak your mind without hesitation, Neville!" said Aragorn, rounding on him angrily. "We would not have thought less of you for explaining yourself later. On such matters of import, one must act as definitively as a Man; not procrastinate like a nervous youth. We may have prevented this! Perhaps in future you should think less of propriety and more of necessity."

Heat rushed to Neville's face and he swallowed hard, feeling like a naughty five-year-old. It was colossally embarrassing to be so roundly chastised (and in front of so many people, too). Not that he blamed Aragorn, really: his own inaction and caused Molly unnecessary pain, and he thoroughly deserved the scolding. But Gimli disagreed.

"Come now, Aragorn. The fault for her grief lies solely with the evil that took the noble lady's Fred from her, not with our young friend. Mayhap he could have spoken a little sooner, but surely he did not have that much time between meeting the elvish brethren himself, and Lady Molly's first sight of them."

The ranger sighed heavily. "Little time, perhaps, yet still enough."

Neville flushed uncomfortably as the weight of six pairs of eyes rested on him. As grateful as he was for the dwarf's intervention, it was little consolation for his ineptness. He hadn't felt quite so rotten since he'd lost the passwords for the Gryffindor common room in his third year at Hogwarts. Still, there was no time for self-pity, and he was not the sort to indulge in it anyway. Molly needed him - but he would have to locate her first.

Before he could think about how to achieve this seemingly impossible goal, Halbarad spoke. "May I ask how her son perished?"

Neville nodded. "He died during the Battle of Hogwarts. A wall exploded. Fred got hit by falling masonry. Died with a smile on his face, or at least that's what Hermione told me." He gave a wry chuckle. "Typical Fred, really. He was always ready with a smile and a joke. George, too - that's his twin brother. They were notorious for pulling pranks. Even started a joke shop recently; it's a great success - or at least it was before the war. Dunno if George will have the heart to go back to it, not without Fred."

Something occurred to him then, as he looked at the fair elven twins, and he felt a sudden pang of acute sympathy for George. "Merlin, he must hate looking in the mirror now," he mumbled sadly.

"I believe my brother and I might understand his agony, to a point. If aught were to befall Elladan …"

The elf, Elrohir, trailed off briefly; he shared a meaningful look with his twin before continuing softly: "I would be bereft without him. And, as one of elvenkind, my torment would last many Ages of Men, unless it were my great fortune to fade before that."

"Yet I would not have that happen, gwanunig nin," said Elladan sombrely. "Think of Adar and Naneth. Of our sister, Arwen, and of Aragorn. Their loss would be no less than yours; and it would be twofold if they lost not one, but both their sons and brothers. How keenly they would suffer! How acute their agony! Nay. Valar forbid, but if aught were to befall me, I would have you live for us both. Your torment, bitter though it may be, would lessen in time with their love and comfort. As will George's, son of Weasley. Those who love him will rally to nurture him back from despair!"

"Indeed," agreed Aragorn. "And there are many Weasleys to aid him, from what I understand. But let us speak no further of losing elven twins - the mere thought cuts at my heart worse than any orcish blade ever could, and I begin to understand the Lady Molly's pain even more. Let us think now on how we may find her."

The thought of half a dozen accomplished trackers (two of them twins) hunting for his Guardian worried Neville: she would not want them witnessing any further displays of her grief, if they ever managed to find her.

"No. Don't do that!" he exclaimed a little too loudly. His startled companions stared at him in surprise.

"We cannot leave her alone to her grief, Master Longbottom," said Aragorn sharply. "She deserves the comfort and company of friends. And do not forget that we must ride this day - before the noon hour, I would guess. As much as it pains me to say it, we have not the luxury of waiting for her to return voluntarily."

"Aragorn speaks truly. We must recover her soon and offer what comfort we may ere we depart." This from Halbarad, who regarded him with an air of puzzlement.

"I didn't say we should leave her alone. It just doesn't seem like a good idea for us to spring ourselves on her en masse. She'll be mortified enough at having made a spectacle of herself, without having half of Middle Earth tracking her down to witness any further displays."

Aragorn's tone was flinty when he spoke next. "You surprise me, Neville. I thought you more compassionate than to describe her grief so callously. 'Making a spectacle of herself'? She is entitled to her sorrow, is she not?"

The teenager smothered a sigh. Aragorn had completely misunderstood him. "I never said she wasn't, Aragorn …"

"Then why speak of it as if it were an inconvenience to be apologised for?" returned the ranger gruffly, interrupting him before he could finish. Neville clenched his teeth in annoyance. "You do the lady a disservice, Neville: Lady Molly is a mother who has recently lost her son. She is well due her grief and need certainly not apologise for it."

"Did I say that she wasn't entitled to grieve? Or that she should apologise for doing so?" asked Neville in irritation.

"Aragorn, I do not believe that that is what the lad meant," began Gimli, but the ranger was on a roll.

"Then it grieves me that you do not wish us go to her in her moment of need. We are her friends, are we not? May we not offer her succour when she has need of it, as she has ever offered it to us? As she has ever offered it to you - particularly when you were wounded not two days since."

Oh for Merlin's sake. That was grossly unfair!

He glared at the ranger, and the small company swapped uneasy looks at the unexpected tension.

"I never said I didn't _want_ everybody to go to her; I only said it wasn't a good idea."

"Yet you did not explain why."

"Yes I did, but you took it _completely_ the wrong way."

"What other way should I have 'taken' it? Lady Weasley has been as a mother to us all during this quest, yet you would have us abandon her in her moment of need? You disappoint me, Neville Longbottom."

It wasn't Aragorn's insinuation that he was indifferent to Molly's pain which hurt Neville the most; it was the fact the ranger had said he was disappointed in him.

"You sound just like my Gran," he said softly.

"Then mayhap your grandmother has occasion for saying so, son of Longbottom. The world is a harsh place for us all at present. The Shadow of the East stretches out to touch all corners of Arda with its evil, and there is a danger that the losses we suffer in war may cripple us yet. It would pain me to see the Lady Molly, of all people, suffer thusly. Though we cannot hope to eradicate her sense of loss, with true heart and kindness we may at least ease her through the worst of it ere we depart."

Neville clenched his fists, willing himself not to lash out with them. He knew the ranger was only speaking out of concern for Molly, but still … "So you're saying I'm heartless and cruel, are you?" he challenged hotly. Aragorn watched him evenly, but did not respond with words. His silence spoke volumes and made the teenager flush angrily. They stood watching each other for several long seconds, before Legolas' silvery voice broke the staring contest.

"Neville, Aragorn, I entreat you: do not quarrel! Think of the Lady Molly! She is in need of our aid. She would not care to see you arguing thus."

"I _was_ thinking of Molly!" stated Neville coolly, not taking his eyes off Aragorn.

The ranger's brows rose in obvious scepticism. "Then you ought to have explained the reason for our earlier talk instantly; not wasted time on something which was not of immediate import. Had you done so, we may have prevented her current distress."

Neville snapped. "Oh, yeah; 'cos that would have been more convenient for you, wouldn't it? You wouldn't have to waste precious time searching for her now, would you? Must be really inconvenient to have to put the departure on hold just so we can recover one hysterical female!"

There was a collective gasp from the others at his outburst. But Neville, heaving with emotion, was intent only on the ranger. Aragorn seemed to grow greatly in stature as he drew himself up regally and stared at Neville as if he had never seen the boy-wizard before: a cold light was in his grey eyes and disdain was clear on his lips.

"You speak surprisingly boldly when you have a mind to, Master Longbottom. It is a quality I have noted in you before; yet it did not seem distasteful to me then, as it does now. Your accusation could not be further from the truth, which you would know if you had listened to aught I have said. Yet perhaps I should not be surprised by your outburst: Wizard or nay, you are yet young, and youth is often prone to ignorance. Be that as it may, let me offer you this counsel: if ever you wish to be rid of this ignorance and become the Man that you ought, it would be in your own best interests to rein in your passions and temper them with diplomacy."

"Aragorn!" cried Legolas in dismay. "You must not say such things!"

But the damage was done. Neville burned in humiliation. How dare that arrogant git call him ignorant! How dare Aragorn stand in judgement of him, when he was the one who had gotten the wrong end of the stick. Who did he think he was? The ruddy king?

Oh. Right. He was, almost.

The seething teenager fought to remain calm as he responded in a tone of equal coolness.

"And does that advice come from Aragorn the friend, or the King of Gondor? Not that it matters, really. Either way you've got this all wrong. For your information, the only person who would perceive Molly's breakdown as her 'making a spectacle', is Molly herself. She'll be mortified when she calms down and realises her exit was witnessed by over five hundred men. The last thing she needs is six more witnessing her in an even worse state. Which was the point I was trying to make. And the quip I made about the inconvenience of you having to delay your journey to recover her? Another point. You were so bloody ready to believe that I was suggesting we ignore her distress, that you didn't even let me finish what I was saying before you accused me of it. It's not nice when someone jumps to conclusions, is it?

"But if you _had_ bothered to let me finish speaking, Aragorn, I would've told you of my intention to go to her. _Alone._ What she needs right now is the comfort of familiarity, and as I'm the only one here who's known her for years, I'll have to do. And I'll do it gladly, if she'll accept my help! Because Molly's like a mother to me; I love her. I'd do anything to help her. And if that means annoying you by asking you to back off of her for five ruddy minutes, then that's the way it has to be."

There was deathly silence among the group as he stopped for breath. Aragorn was a little paler than he had been a few seconds earlier, and dawning regret was clear in his eyes. If Neville hadn't been so wounded by the older man's hurtful remarks, he might even have swatted him playfully on the shoulder and told him to forget the whole sorry incident (well, maybe not: no one swatted _Aragorn_ playfully on the shoulder).

But Neville _was _wounded by Aragorn's uncharacteristically harsh words. True, the ranger _had_ completely misinterpreted him and then lashed out accordingly in defence of Molly. But it had hurt.

A lot.

"You know, Aragorn, you remind me a lot of the man I think my father could have been, if things had worked out differently. You're noble and strong; you have an innate sense of justice - and a pretty bizarre sense of humour; thanks for landing me with Fæleu, by the way. Did you know that Éomer now thinks I want to mount something other than her back? Yeah, I think 'mate' must mean something a whole lot different here than it does back home."

There was a hugely inappropriate explosion of laughter from Gimli, but a glare from three elves and two men quickly silenced it, though the dwarf's shoulders continued to quake in mirth. Neville sighed despondently.

Great. He'd had a horrible suspicion the big blond had meant that, but hadn't wanted to dwell on it in case he was wildly wrong. Gimli had just proved he wasn't. Oh, well. Back to business …

Brown eyes found grey again. "You're kind and wise, Aragorn. You know what do in every situation, no matter how hopeless things seem. You draw people to you like no one I've ever met before, except maybe Professor Dumbledore and Harry Potter." He paused thoughtfully, then: "And possibly Fleur Weasley, though that's more a Veela thing than anything else. I'm sure men don't drool over _you_, though, which will be a great relief for you."

Gimli's shoulders continued to quake, and Neville cursed his runaway tongue. Taking a slow, deep breath, he got back on track.

"What I'm trying to say - and not very well, I'll admit - is that you're everything I aspire to be. In fact, I think so highly of you, that sometimes I forget you're only human, and therefore as fallible to fault as any of the rest of us mere mortals. Yes, you're right: I am young. And I'm far from perfect - just ask my Gran, if you ever drop round to Yorkshire for tea and scones. She'll give you a list several metres long of my inadequacies. _'Straighten your shoulders, boy!'_; _'Are you a wizard or a mouse?'_; _'Why can't you be more like your father?'_"

A bitter laugh escaped him then, and Neville's eyes felt uncomfortably hot. "Yeah, far from perfect. And I'll probably never be all that diplomatic either. Not that that bothers me too much; I've no plans to become a politician. I prefer the quiet life, when I can get it. But you're not perfect either. You jumped to the wrong conclusion just now; you called me ignorant; implied I was heartless and cold. But I'm not. I may not be as worldly wise as you, but I've lived through a fair amount of war of my own. And I like to think I've learned from it. At the very least, I've got a fairly healthy supply of tact and decency. I would never abandon a friend, callously or otherwise. I hoped you would have known that by now. My mistake."

Aragorn moved to speak, but Neville rambled on before his nerve deserted him (they could be his final words if the ranger attacked).

"Still, at least I know now what a disappointment I am to you," the ranger flinched, "though I'm sorry to hear it. But you won't have to put up with me for much longer. I'm leaving for Dol Amroth soon. And you'll end up in Minas Tirith, eventually. You're sure to meet Gandalf there. He's older. Less ignorant. A real man - or at least, a real wizard. He'll be able to practice a whole lot more diplomacy than I ever could. And now, if you'll excuse me, I need to find my Guardian. I'll try to make sure we're back before noon."

With that, Neville grabbed his wand. Having no clear idea of where Molly might be, he simply concentrated on the mouth of the valley and turned on the spot. He Disapparated with a loud _crack!_, leaving his companions to stare in dismay at the empty spot he had occupied.

**XXX**

Aragorn was angrier with himself than he could ever remember being. After Neville's disappearance he paced the blackened grass, deep in thought and self-recrimination. Why had he attacked the boy thus? What in Arda had possessed him to insinuate that the young wizard was anything less than honourable? Had Neville not proven his honour time and again? Indeed, his very appearance in Middle Earth had proven it before he ever lifted a finger to protect the Fellowship! And Neville had continued to prove his honour with each (slightly faltering) stroke of his blade, and every hardy stroke of his staff.

And what had Aragorn done? Accused him of ignorance. He had claimed that the youth lacked compassion for his Guardian. Proclaimed before some of the highest nobility in Middle Earth that he, Aragorn, was disappointed with him.

Regret flooded the heir of Isildur as he paced back and forth, back and forth; his booted feet wearing away what remained of the blackened grass. No one spoke as he collected his thoughts; no one dared.

Why had he spoken so harshly to his wizard friend? Was he even actually angry with Neville, or was it merely the culmination of his own fears and hopes for Middle Earth manifesting themselves as anger after a long and difficult journey from Rivendell?

Coming to a sudden halt, Aragorn gazed down the Deeping-coomb and pondered the two possibilities. He examined his feelings on the young wizard first.

It could not be denied that Neville's nerves sometimes got the better of him and made him both speak and act rashly. His first meeting with Éomer, for instance, when he had enchanted the man's spear into a brush. At that same meeting, he had almost caused a fight between Éomer and Gimli by remarking on the dwarf's fondness for the Lady Galadriel. And the boy's own belligerence when the Third Marshall of the Mark had challenged his identity had almost lost him his head. Not to mention the unwise comments he had later made to Théoden about the crippling afflictions of the aged …

Shaking his head in mild exasperation, Aragorn resumed his pacing. Neville was indeed young. Yet had he, Aragorn, not also been young once? Neville had called him worldly wise, but that wisdom had not come to the ranger overnight. He had had to live through his own fair share of embarrassing moments before he had experience enough to call himself a man. Such as the time when he first visited Mirkwood with Elrond, and suggested to Thranduil that he consider leaving the forest for pastures new, if the threat from Dol Guldur and the spiders was so great. True, he had been but sixteen Winters of men at the time, and had not appreciated that Mirkwood did not have the same enchanted protections as his own fair Imladris. But, in his ignorance, he had underestimated the Silvan elves' love of their home. _And_ how proud a people they were. Thranduil was so incensed, he had not invited him back for almost a decade.

Arda! but his cheeks still tingled with shame when he thought of that …

Aragorn quickly distracted himself with thoughts of his long journey with Neville thus far. At their first meeting in Lothlórien those many weeks ago, he had felt some concern at the boy's obvious youth. Wizard or nay, his Winters were few. He had even spoken to Galadriel of his doubts in Neville's effectiveness as a protector of the Fellowship, given the gravity of their quest. Yet she had merely smiled enigmatically and told him that his fears were unfounded. And she was correct. Whatever doubts Aragorn had harboured were soon banished when the orcs attacked the Fellowship on the Anduin. Neville had proven his skill in their defence both upon the river and later, in spectacular fashion, on Amon Hen. The boy may not be fully adept with his sword, but he was clever enough to know its mysterious qualities could fell a Nazgûl, and competent enough in its use to swing it into the evil creature's stomach.

His fortitude also was remarkable: even for Aragorn, with his hardy Númenorean heritage, the almost four day dash on foot across Rohan had been taxing. For Neville, it must have been nothing short of excruciating. Yet the boy had not complained once.

Not that the same could be said about his reaction when presented with a horse …

A brief smile crossed the ranger's face as he recalled plucking a floating carrot from the air, and fishing a wet teenager from a muddy pool on the Eastemnet a day later. Neville and horses did not mix well. Which reminded him; before they left Helm's Deep, he really ought to enlighten Éomer in regard to the young wizard's vernacular.

_Mates_, indeed!

The ranger chuckled.

In Edoras, the young wizard had not been reticent when speaking his mind to the then-addled King of Rohan (but only after the arthritis gaffe). There were no nerves evident when he pointed out to a sickly Théoden that his kingdom's troubles may not have been so harsh had he bothered to accept Gandalf's counsel. Neither had he hesitated to draw his staff and launch himself at ten thousand orcs in Helm's Deep - a deed which almost proved fatal for him.

So, nervous or nay, it was not to be denied that the visiting Istar was brave, honourable, and possessed of goodly amount of wisdom. His devotion to his Guardian was also unquestionable. Ever was the youth ready with a smile for her, ever did he show her respect by acquiescing to her (many) demands to wash behind his ears, or flatten his hair (advice she frequently visited on all the remaining Fellowship members). Ever was he ready with a helping hand when she was clearing up evidence of their many camps, and always was he ready to protect her from harm, despite the fact that she bore the grace of Varda on her bosom.

And yet he, Aragorn, had accused the boy of ignorance and a lack of compassion. An unfair charge, given that Neville had recognised Lady Molly's needs before anyone else had. The boy had been correct to state that she would not welcome the sight of so many worried faces while she grieved; the witch was not one given to displays of negative emotion (unless there was an enemy in sight, in which case it was welcomed). She was ever sunny and bright, and always keen to see to the needs of her charges - for lords or nay, he knew that was how she viewed them. She was a mother and, for the present, they were her flock. And all mothers preferred _to_ mother than _be_ mothered; something he recalled from experience with his own dear naneth, before she passed. Thus, it would be difficult enough for the lady to compose herself when Neville appeared, let alone if several of them did. That is, if Neville ever found her.

He sighed wearily.

"Aragorn?"

Halbarad's voice pulled him from his contemplations, and he found that he was glad of it.

"I am well, Halbarad. At least, as well as my conscience will allow me to be," he said, answering the unspoken question.

The other ranger approached him and laid a comforting hand on his arm. "Do not be so harsh on yourself."

"Nay, Cousin. Let me feel my shame. It is no less than I deserve."

"Nonsense, lad!" barked Gimli. "You are overwrought with fatigue. I will wager my best walking axe that you have not taken rest since we arrived in Helm's Deep."

"Then you would be correct in your assumption, Master Dwarf," said Elladan. "Where others have had the benefit of a few hours' sleep, Aragorn has been wrestling long and hard with the evil of Mordor."

Gimli and Legolas both straightened in alarm.

"What mean you by this, Elrondion?" demanded the blond elf, looking at his ranger friend through concerned eyes. But it was Aragorn who answered the query.

"What my elven brother means, is that I have looked in the Stone of Orthanc, my friends."

"You have looked in that accursed stone of wizardry!" exclaimed Gimli with fear and wonder in his face. "Did you say aught to - him? Even Gandalf feared the encounter."

"You forget to whom you speak," said Aragorn sternly, and his eyes glinted. "Did I not openly proclaim my title before the doors of Edoras? What do you fear that I should say to him? Nay, Gimli," he said in a softer voice, and the grimness left his face, and he looked like one who had laboured in sleepless pain for many nights. "Nay, my friends, I am the lawful master of the Stone, and I had both the right and the strength to use it, or so I judged. The right cannot be doubted. The strength was enough - barely."

He drew a deep breath. "It was a bitter struggle, and the weariness was slow to pass. Unlike our young Wizard friend," he allowed himself a brief smile, "I spoke no word to him, and in the end I wrenched the Stone to my own will. That alone he will find hard to endure. And he beheld me. Yes, Master Gimli, he saw me, but in other guise than you see me here. If that will aid him, then I have done ill. But I do not think so. To know that I lived and walked the earth was a blow to his heart, I deem; for he knew it not till now. The eyes in Orthanc did not see through the armour of Théoden; but Sauron has not forgotten Isildur the sword of Elendil. Now in the very hour of his great designs the heir of Isildur and the Sword are revealed; for I showed the blade re-forged to him. He is not so mighty yet that he is above fear; nay, doubt ever gnaws him."

"But he wields great dominion, nonetheless," said Gimli; "and now he will strike more swiftly."

"The hasty strike goes oft astray," countered Aragorn. "We must press our Enemy, and no longer wait upon him for the move. See my friends, when I mastered the Stone, I learned many things. A grave peril I saw coming unlooked-for upon Gondor from the South that will draw off great strength from the defence of Minas Tirith. If it is not countered swiftly, I deem that the City will be lost ere ten days be gone."

Legolas looked puzzled. "Aragorn, I do not understand; did Neville not say he was soon departing for Dol Amroth? And where he goes, the Lady Molly will follow. With such mighty aid as theirs, will not this threat to the southern lands be duly matched by the Knights of those lands?"

"Neville and his Guardian cannot fight on two fronts simultaneously. For the moment, they must make for Belfalas to offer what aid they may against the new threat presented by the Anduin, whether it be on the river proper or by the land which follows its path west. They do not go_ specifically_ to aid Imrahil with any attack by Sea, though they will lend what help they may if things go ill. And things may well go ill, for the force that shall come by sea will strike now in two waves: the first, Pelargir, which I believe has been long in the planning by our Enemy; the second strike was conceived more in haste since our young friend's confrontation with Sauron. So Neville and Molly will make for Dol Amroth. As for Pelargir, they shall be hard pressed to contend with assault already planned for them, let alone any additiional force which may sweep its way west to contend with fictional storming troopers."

"Then what help can there be to send thither, and how could it come there in time?" asked Gimli.

"I have no help to send, therefore I must go myself." Aragorn's gaze travelled from elf to dwarf and back. "But there is only one way through the mountains that will bring me to the coastlands before all is lost. That is the Paths of the Dead."

Silence reigned for many seconds as Legolas and Gimli absorbed the news; neither Halbarad nor the the sons of Elrond seemed surprised by his announcement, having been forewarned of the decision. It did not take long for Gimli to voice his opinions on the matter, wide-eyed with shock, though Legolas remained silent and thoughtful. Nevertheless, Aragorn remained firm. He spoke of the seer, Malbeth, and relayed his words that the Dead would follow none but the heir of him to whom they swore an oath, which they later broke. Only then would they find their eternal rest. So it was that dwarf and elf agreed to accompany him on this dangerous path.

"At least now the reason for the sharp words you exchanged with young Neville becomes clear: you had much on your mind and little rest to counter it with," commented the dwarf, tugging absently at his bushy beard. "The lad has also not known a proper night's rest since we departed Lothlórien, something that suits him even less than it does any of us; I suspect he is little used to hard journeys through hostile lands."

"We have all suffered from a lack of proper rest these past weeks, Gimli son of Gloin, and that may be the fashion of all our nights until the war is decided. Yet it cannot be an excuse for hasty words. I must now use the same diplomacy I was so keen to recommend to Neville to ask his pardon for the offence I have caused him."

Aragorn's regret was clear on his face. Legolas smiled at him kindly. "A task you will find easier than you believe, mellon nin. Young Master Longbottom thinks most highly of you. Did he not liken you to his father? What greater praise may there be than that? He will be as keen to reconcile with you as you are with him."

The elf's words elicited a soft smile from his ranger friend. "If his father was aught like him, then Neville does me great honour with such praise, and I shall endeavour to be worthy of it. He spoke truly when he spoke of faults; I am not without one or two of my own. Even the heir of Isildur is but a Man, in the end."

"A Man you may be though there is little fault with that, considering the Man you are," said Elladan, smoothing his cloak a little too nonchalantly. "But what else is this? One or two faults? Come, my brother! You possess a little more than one or two; your aim with the bow is not what it ought to be."

Elrohir grinned wickedly, adding: "Nor indeed is your skill with a cooking pot. I have oft thought you were trying to poison us in the wilds of the North. Alas, that we ride this time into the wilds of the South with you by our side! I can only hope that our Mirkwood kin or Master Gimli is more adept with the stewing of rabbit than you."

The ranger rolled his eyes in fond exasperation. "Why must I have such brothers?"

"'Tis punishment for your many faults," quipped Legolas, and the air of gloom was finally dispelled by the resulting laughter.

Feeling lighter of heart than he had in many hours, Aragorn cast his regret aside and threw one final glance down the valley. Neither Neville nor Molly were in sight, but he did not doubt that either of them would return soon. Neville would see to it.

"Come, my friends. Let us tarry here no longer. There is naught we can do for the Lady Molly at present. She is now in the capable hands of her charge, and he will see to her comfort, of that I am certain. In the meantime, we have much to do. I will take counsel with Théoden shortly, and need speak with Merry also."

"Nay, Aragorn. You will take rest for an hour or so," said Elladan briskly. Aragorn opened his mouth to object, but the fair elf held up a hand. "I will brook no argument. Legolas or Gimli may speak with the King of Rohan and bid him wait a little longer ere he departs. The muster of Rohan may wait a few hours longer without calamity befalling their lands. Théoden will be glad to do you this small service. You may speak with him later."

Both twins stared at him with the same familial sternness he had oft witnessed from their father (usually when he stumbled across his daughter and foster-son locked in an embrace in some hidden alcove or other).

"Aye, lad. Listen to your kin. Legolas and I shall take to the hall of the Burg immediately, where Théoden is finishing his repast. It shall be no work at all to request a short delay. Indeed, I may even have the opportunity to regale him with some choice tales from the Lonely Mountain! The Rohirrim know little enough of my home; let it be my duty to educate them!"

Legolas grunted in a very un-elflike manner. "Duty indeed! It will be naught more than your excuse to monopolise the conversation and fill the king's head with outlandish tales. 'Tis best that I go with you then, lest he soon believe your father won the Battle of the Five Armies single-handedly."

And so, with a friendly spat between dwarf and elf ringing in his ears, and a promise they wake him if either Neville or the Lady Molly appeared, Aragorn followed kin and friends across the ruined fields and passed through the Hornburg-gateway. Less than five minutes later, he was safely ensconced on his bedroll and fast asleep.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Author's Note_: Some text and dialogue lifted from Lord of the Rings, The Return of the King, Book Five, Chapter 2; The Passing of the Grey Company.

Goheno nin - Forgive me

Naneth - Mother

Adar - Father

Elrondion - Son of Elrond

Gwanunig nin - My twin

Mellon nin - My friend

Okay, a short chapter here, but I really had to get it out of the way before I start on the next part of Nev's journey.

Some of you may wonder as to the point of this chapter. Actually, I wrote it specifically because I wanted to avoid the HP/LoTR characters coasting along on some sort of mutual admiration-fest. Yes, they get on with each other (very well), but no relationship is without its rocky moments.

Choosing Aragorn as the antagonist may seem a little contentious to some, I realise. But I wanted to show that even the best among us is capable of making a little mistake. And after his monumental battle of wills with Sauron via the Palantír, Aragorn is certainly knackered enough to snap a little (and it's not too OOC either, methinks - he can be a little sharp at times. His pop at Gimli in this chapter was canon). Still, I hope you don't think I've stretched the boundaries of his character too much.

Thanks,

Kara's Aunty :)


	31. Reconciliation

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. and Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

**Credit: **www dot hp-encyclopedia dot com and www dot Tuckborough dot net, real-elvish dot net.,

**Please review - it really _is_ my only reward.**

**Not Quite A Maia**

**Chapter 31**

* * *

_Helm's Deep_

_Third Age 6__th__ March 3019_

Neville's head was still buzzing with the angry words he and Aragorn had shared when he Apparated at the mouth of Helm's Deep; so much so that he had to take several deep breaths to dispel the negative memory in order to focus his thoughts and concentrate on locating his Guardian.

"Something I should've done immediately," he muttered in self-disgust, "instead of picking fights."

Oh, well. What was done was done. Now to the important stuff: finding Molly. He fixed his eyes on the land ahead.

The vast grassy plains of the Westemnet stretched on as far as his eye could see; long grass swaying in the wind like green water disturbed by a passing boat. A few remnant huts lay ruined in the distant north-west, evidence of the orcs' path from when they marched towards Helm's Deep, but there was no sign of a red-haired witch.

Not that he could possibly hope to spot her from this distance (if she was even over there); but he had no idea where else to look for her, or what he would say if he found her. Still, he couldn't stand here all day hoping she'd spontaneously appear; he needed to try _something_.

With a sigh, he turned on the spot, Apparating just short of the ruined settlement. It wasn't likely she was there, but it was the first place she would see upon exiting the ravine. Maybe he'd get lucky?

He didn't. After half an hour of thoroughly searching the deserted village (which contained a grand total of ten devastated shacks), and much calling of her name, Neville abandoned the settlement: Molly simply wasn't there.

But where the ruddy heck _was_ she?

Idly tapping his wand against his thigh, Neville walked back to the edge of the village and pondered the possibilities. Where in Middle Earth would she go to be alone? Somewhere she had been before? What about Edoras?

Hmm; maybe. It was deserted, wasn't it? Actually, no, it wasn't - at least, not anymore. Théoden's men would be assembling themselves there, awaiting the return of their king. Molly would want to avoid them.

Where else then? Isengard?

No! Absolutely not. What if that git Saruman was looking out of Orthanc's tower windows? Molly would not be thrilled at the thought of _him_ witnessing her grief.

Okay, then; what did that leave? Lothlórien?

Neville blinked. Would she really go all the way back there? Surely not. It would involve too many intrusive questions that she wouldn't be keen to answer.

He sighed, admitting defeat. If she wasn't in Edoras, Isengard or Lothlórien, then she could be anywhere.

In which case, he'd _never _find her ... Not until she decided to return of her own accord. And he had no doubt she would. Molly wasn't the sort of person to abandon her responsibilities.

Then again, neither was _he_. He would not leave her alone with her sorrow. His Guardian needed him, and if Neville had to cover every square inch of Arda to find her, then he was fully prepared to do it.

As long as he didn't run into any more of those ruddy Black Riders …

The thought of the Nazgûl suddenly gave Neville an idea.

His Patronus! He could use his Patronus to find her - or at least to send her a message! The only question was; would Molly be in the right frame of mind to answer him?

He'd _make_ her answer him! He'd send Patronus after Patronus until he eventually got a reply. He'd annoy her so much, that she'd have to come and hex him to make him stop.

Yes! Brilliant idea!

Spurred into action, he raised his wand. "_Expecto Patronum!_"

A large silver blur exploded from the tip of Neville's wand and dashed twenty feet over the plain before turning around and bounding back to stand before him. Neville stood over the glowing hound (whose furry tail swung madly from side to side) and briefly debated the message to send.

"Molly, it's me, Neville," he began, then stopped. Idiot! Of course it was him. Who else in Middle Earth could possibly send her a Patronus?

He cleared his throat and tried again. "Molly, I know you're upset, and I don't want to intrude, but … everyone's really concerned about you. Don't worry, they're not sending out the search parties - yet. I've told them to back off for a bit. Aragorn's not happy about it."

To say the least. A vision of the ranger's angry mien floated before his mind's eye, and Neville flushed in shame. Aragorn was right: he needed to stop worrying about what other people thought of him. At a time like this, it was just selfish. It was time to stop being a nervous youth and become the man he was supposed to be.

"I'm sorry Molly," said Neville, his tone heavy with regret. "I'm sorry you saw Aragorn's brothers like that. It was my fault. As soon as I saw them, I knew they might upset you. Not _them_ in and of themselves, of course: Elladan and Elrohir seem like pretty nice blokes. But what they _are _… I should've just told Aragorn straight away to keep them away from you, instead of worrying about offending anyone. I'm really, really sorry. Please, Molly: tell me where you are. Let me make it up to you. Let me help you."

With a swish of wand, Neville sent the Patronus in search of his Guardian; it soared across plains, and he thought it might be heading in a north-westerly direction, though he had little enough time to speculate before it faded from his sight. At a loss as to what to do next, for he was not eager to return to the Hornburg after his recent confrontation with Aragorn, Neville paced through the long grass for a while, mulling over what he might say to Molly (if she answered him).

For almost an hour he trampled across the same strip of grass, throwing worried glances in the direction his Patronus had vanished, but there was no answering glow from Molly's lioness. Had she received his message? Or was she simply too far away for the Labrador to have reached her yet? Could she really have travelled _so_ far in less than two hours on a Cleansweep? Or had she received the message after all, and been so upset that he hadn't acted quicker to save her from the sight of the twins, that she'd decided to ignore it?

Not that he would blame her. Still, it didn't sound like Molly to act in such a petty manner. Perhaps he should send another Patronus?

Just as Neville lifted his wand to conjure the Labrador again, a flash of speeding silver caught the corner of his right eye. He swung around - it was Molly's lioness! Relief flooded him as the huge cat slowed to a halt before him and sat on its hindquarters. It opened its massive jaw and spoke a mere five words, and the shaky, faltering voice that issued forth was in complete contrast to its imposing appearance.

"Fangorn Forest. You know where."

Message delivered, the lioness faded before his eyes, leaving a very puzzled Neville in its wake.

Crikey, she'd made it as far as Fangorn Forest in such a short time? On a ruddy _Cleansweep_?

No, she couldn't have. It had taken almost a day for Théoden's company to ride from Isengard to Helm's Deep. It wouldn't have taken that much less time from Fangorn. Molly must have Apparated there with her broom after leaving the valley. But where would she be in Fangorn? _You know where. _What did that mean? Neville hadn't actually been inside the forest; he'd only camped …

He'd camped on the eaves of it with Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli! She could only mean their campsite …

Setting his jaw in determination, Neville pictured his destination, raised his wand and turned on the spot.

_Crack!_

He reappeared almost instantly by the spot where Éomer's men had burned the orcish carcasses: the fire had long since stopped smoking, and the remnant ashes of Saruman's army had been dispersed by the wind.

Probably the same wind that was bringing the smell of decay to his nostrils …

Neville grimaced as his eyes fell on the decomposing head of the world's unluckiest uruk: it was still lodged on its Rohirric spear, its filthy tresses floating flirtatiously about its helmet when caught by a stray breeze.

Merlin! Those creatures were even uglier in death than in life.

Moving away as quickly as he could, he strode past the blackened circle of the pyre and headed towards the large chestnut tree which the Four Hunters had sheltered under almost a week earlier. Sure enough, before he even reached it, he saw the tell-tale mop of red hair and the tweed coat of his Guardian beneath the tree's spreading limbs. Molly hadn't noticed him yet: she was sitting at an angle, so that her back was almost to him. Her arms were circled around her bent legs, hands clasped at the front, and her red head rested on her knees.

Deciding it was only polite to warn her of his approach, Neville coughed. Her head jerked up, and he turned around quickly, pretending to look for something amidst the grass so that she could collect herself. After a few seconds had passed, the teenager straightened and faced her again: Molly was now standing up, watching him. Her eyes were redder than her hair, and she sniffed suspiciously, but the matronly witch braved a smile.

Taking a deep breath, he gave a rather awkward wave in response.

"Hi, Molly. Are you all right?"

Her lower lip started trembling and she whirled away from him with shaking shoulders. Dismayed, Neville put all thought of awkwardness behind him and took control of the situation. Striding up to the grieving witch he grasped her coat sleeve, turned her around, and enfolded her in his arms. Molly didn't even put up a fight; a sure sign of her distress. Instead, she sank wordlessly to the ground, and Neville followed suit.

And so they remained; kneeling on the damp grass for a very long time. Neville cradled his Guardian, patting her back in comfort as her body shook with the power of her grief.

"'S'alright, Molly. It's alright. There, there, there," was his mantra as she wept into his Lórien cloak. He rocked her gently from side-to-side, mumuring soothing nonsense in her ear. It was something Gran had done for him almost a decade earlier after the death of his beloved Grandpa Longbottom; one of the few times she had dropped her stern façade and indulged in such an intimate display of affection. He suspected it had helped her almost as much as it had him at the time. Molly seemed to take comfort from it, too; her bitter sobs were slowly dying, replaced by ragged gulps of air and shuddering exhalations, then, finally, the slower, smoother rhythm of natural breaths. Neville held her a little longer, until she had finally composed herself enough to break the embrace of her own accord.

Finally, the matronly witch did pull away, wiping at her face with a coat sleeve. Seeing her need, Neville pulled a crumpled (though mercifully clean) hankie from his trouser pocket and offered it to her.

"Thank you, dear," she croaked, looking rather embarrassed as she daubed at her puffy eyes and blew her nose. She was about to hand it back, but he shook his head.

"Keep it," he mumbled (not really wanted the snotty rag any more). "In case you need it later."

Molly made a strange sort of strangled noise that could have passed for either a sob or a laugh.

"You're a good boy," she choked, sitting fully on the grass and twisting the hankie between her fingers. Neville took the weight off his knees and joined her, stretching his legs out in front of him and leaning back on his arms. He tipped his head back and stared up at the sky; it was mainly clear, but a dark bank of clouds was building off to the west. There would be rain before noon, if it made its way any further east, he knew. The wind rose again, tugging at their hair and rustling the leaves of the nearby trees. Neither witch nor wizard spoke for several minutes, both content to gather their thoughts a little longer. Finally, Molly stirred.

"You must think I'm very silly, rushing off like that," she said. Her voice was low and filled with a mixture of self-rebuke and regret.

He lowered his head and found she was staring at the sodden hankie in her hands.

"No, Molly. I don't. Far from it, in fact. I can't even begin to imagine how you've held it together for so long."

She smiled sadly. "Well, we have been rather busy, dear. There's not really been very much time for tears, what with all that's been going on recently."

Neville's stomach twisted unpleasantly. She _should_ have had time for her tears. Her son was dead: Molly should be back home now with her family, being comforted by those who knew her best, not stuck on some Merlin-forsaken field in a strange world watching his back while he got himself into all sorts of trouble.

As if sensing his thoughts, she reached over and patted his hand. "It's not your fault, Neville. If you remember correctly, I practically forced myself on you back in Valinor."

Er, bad choice of words … But he knew what she meant; mother that she was, Molly had not been happy at the thought of him, barely of age, prancing around in a strange world that was waging war against its own Dark Lord. She could no more have left him to it than he could have refused Varda's request for help. Still, the knowledge that she had postponed her mourning to keep an eye on him made him feel guilty. Perhaps he _should_ have refused Varda?

It was too late for regrets now. But not too late for an apology.

"I'm really sorry, Molly. I got you into this mess in the first place. If I had just told the Valar I wasn't up to it, you'd be safe in your own bed right now. They could've easily found someone else to lend them a hand. Harry, for instance."

Molly's face clouded. "Now that's enough of that, Neville Longbottom!" she chided. "They didn't choose anyone else; they chose _you_. And you agreed. You could hardly have said no - you would never have dreamed of refusing to help them. How could you, when you've inherited your parents' sense of honour and responsibility. And anyway," she paused for breath, "if they had asked Harry, I would still have come. I could never abandon one of my boys …"

She trailed off with a sniff, and he knew she was thinking of Fred.

"Harry's lucky to have you, you know," he said softly. "So was Fred."

His words seemed to galvanise her into action. Molly's face tightened with a look of unmistakable bitterness and, catching his questioning glance, she sprang to her feet and stomped at the ground before him. Worried that he had inadvertently upset her (again), Neville rose, but before he could speak she turned on him.

"You think Fred was so lucky?" she barked. "Well, I don't! What sort of a mother lets her son walk into battle, but doesn't have the sense to stay with him? To protect him?" Molly clenched her fists angrily. "I should never have let him join the Order! I should have forbidden to let him and George go to Hogwarts that night! I should've locked him in the attic with the ghoul! I should've locked them _all_ in the bloody attic!"

The hankie was history as Molly ripped it to shreds in her passion. Her sunny countenance was now a picture of self-loathing as she stomped back and forth, her voice rising hysterically. Neville was alarmed at the sudden change in her mood, and he shifted uncomfortably, unsure of how to console her. What could he possibly say that wouldn't sound trite?

He stuck with the truth.

"Fred would never have let you do that. He was too independent. He wanted to fight - nothing you could've said or done would have stopped him."

"I _could_ have stopped him, if only I'd tried harder!" she snapped. "But, oh no; I let him get away with murder for far too long! I should have been stricter with him - with all of them! I should've _made_ him obey me! Oh, why didn't I hex them all at birth? A quick Imperius to make sure they always did as their mother said - no one would've been the wiser! Bill would never have left for Egypt; Charlie would have a sensible job in the Ministry, like his father; Percy would never have turned against us. And Fred … Fred would still be alive. He would be _alive!"_

The thought of Molly performing Unforgivables on her newborn infants was so ludicrous that Neville would have laughed if the situation hadn't been so serious.

"Molly, you're the last person to use a spell like that on anyone, let alone on your own children," he pointed out sensibly. She whirled on him.

"Oh, you think so, do you? Well you're wrong; I used one on that uruk when I was in Fangorn," she jerked a thumb in the direction of the forest, "or have you forgotten that?"

"But that was to get information from an enemy that was vital to the war effort. It was an entirely different situation. Besides, you could never have maintained seven Imperius curses for years on end."

"And why not?" she demanded.

He sighed. "Because you're too good person - too good a _mother_ - to have eroded your own children's free choice like that. And even if you had managed it, it takes a lot of concentration to control a spell that powerful for so long."

"Rubbish! Barty Crouch Snr managed it on his son for ages! If he can do it, I certainly can!"

"But he was only controlling _one_ person: you're talking about controlling _seven._"

"So you don't think I'm strong enough to have managed control of my own children?" she accused, her face now redder than her fiery hair. "Well, I can assure you that I am! Something you would know, if you knew anything about the strength of a desperate mother!"

Feeling very much like he'd been doused with ice water, Neville blanched. Molly had an excellent point: he had no idea of the strength of a desperate mother. How could he, when his own had been living in a locked ward for most of his life? Still, it hurt to hear her say it. He swallowed hard.

_Get a grip, Longbottom._ _She didn't mean it! She doesn't know what she's saying!_

But barely had the words left her mouth when Molly seemed to realise to whom she was speaking. Her anger dissipated immediately and two hands flew to her face in horror. "Oh, Neville! Neville, dear … I'm so sorry. I didn't mean that; not the way it sounded."

He knew that already, though hearing her say so made him feel better.

"'S'alright, Molly. Don't worry about it."

"It's not all right!" she gasped. "It was a heartless, unforgivable thing to say, and I'm dreadfully sorry for it."

"It would only be heartless and unforgivable if you'd delivered it with malicious intent," he pointed out. "Which you didn't. So don't worry about it. Anyway, I've learned to live with it."

What other choice was there? If he fell apart every time someone mentioned his parents (which Gran did - almost every day), he would've been sharing a ward with them since he was two years old.

The magnanimous gesture took the wind from Molly's sails. She seemed to sag a little, and turned her back to him. From the quivery tone of her voice, he knew that she was crying again.

"You're very kind, Neville," she said, attempting to keep her voice level. "I'm not sure I could be so forgiving. It's just … it's so _difficult_; I'm so _angry!_"

Molly took a few steps forward and stopped, her gaze resting on the dark greens and browns of Fangorn's trees. Neville debated drawing up beside her, but dismissed it: she obviously needed some distance between them before she could continue, and he could still hear her anyway.

"When Voldemort disappeared all those years ago, and everyone thought he was dead, I was so relieved to know my babies wouldn't have to grow up under his shadow, " she began, her tone strangely dull. " The years afterwards passed in such a happy blur ... But then he came back! Oh, I was so terrified for my family! Each and every one of them. Most of the boys were grown up by then, you see; I knew that if there was another war, that they would want to be in the thick of things, fighting against the threat of Voldemort. And I knew it would be difficult to protect them all ..."

Her words were now so soft that he had to strain to catch them. Molly abandoned her view of Fangorn to resume her anxious pacing. The witch's growing distress was clear to see; her voice rose in pitch, and she was alternately clenching balled fists to her sides and waving her arms in wild circles. He was desperate to soothe her (in his own awkward way), but some inner instinct told him that it would be better for her if he simply allowed her to vent her emotions. If they were to leave for pastures new at noon, this may well be the only chance she got to do so.

And she desperately needed to do so …

"I begged and pleaded with Bill and Charlie not to join the Order of the Phoenix," continued Molly, throwing him a desperate look. "Order missions were very dangerous - look at what happened to their father. What if something happened to them? How could I bear to know that my children were deliberately placing themselves in harm's way? They wouldn't listen, of course, and I couldn't forbid it, what with them being of age. It was torture, dear. Torture! I felt so helpless … the only comfort I had was that the others were too young to join them."

She laughed bitterly.

"Not that that lasted long. Time passes so quickly when you become a parent. One moment you're wiping their noses and reading them bedtime stories and the next …"

Molly raised a hand above her head.

"… they're all grown up. Too big for a goodnight kiss. Too old to pay attention to their fussy mother. On Fred's and George's seventeenth birthday, they insisted on joining the Order. Their father and I managed to talk them out of it - at least until they had left school. It was only a short reprieve, of course, but in that instant, I knew that the danger to my family was greater than ever. Ron was already fifteen, you see, and his friendship with Harry had been getting him into the most awful scrapes for four years. Not that I blamed Harry, of course. Poor boy; he couldn't help it. I worried just as much for him. And then they both went to the Department of Mysteries that summer - and Ginny went with them! Oh, I can't tell you how frantic I was! All my worst fears were realised then: every member of my family had just made themselves prominent targets for the Death Eaters - and two of them still in school at that!"

She was sobbing in earnest now. Neville reached towards her with his hand, but she sidestepped it.

"And then a year later, Albus died. The greatest wizard we've ever known - dead!" cried Molly, her brown eyes streaming. "And if he couldn't stand against Voldemort, what chance did the rest of us have? What chance did my children have? Bill was nearly killed that evening, and then again on his wedding day. His _wedding_ day, for Merlin's sake! Ron ran off with Harry and Hermione that very same afternoon, leaving me in an absolute state for months on end. I never knew where they were, or what they were up to. I didn't even know if they were safe, or if they'd been captured and killed! And when Ginny came home from school at Easter ... I knew I couldn't send her back! I'm sorry it left you alone, dear, but I just couldn't send her back, I couldn't!"

Her eyes searched his, as if seeking understanding, but flickered away before they found it.

"It's all right, Molly. I was fine," said Neville, anxious to alleviate her distress, but she rushed on as if she hadn't even heard him - something which was entirely possible: the matronly witch was by now so caught up by the onslaught of memories that he doubted she would notice if a Nazgûl walked up to her, bent down on one knee and declared its undying affection.

"We had to split up and go into hiding after that, of course. It was safer that way while Voldemort's Ministry sycophants were hunting us. Bill was safe enough at Shell Cottage with Fleur, thank Merlin; it's warded, you see. Hardly surprising, given his experience at Gringotts. Charlie stayed with a friend in Southampton. I wasn't sure where Percy was, but I hoped he was safe. I thought he was still angry with us for opposing the Ministry, and that he at least would be safe in London - they did think he was one of theirs, after all. But Arthur couldn't return to work after Ginny came home that Easter; they would have demanded he turn her in, and as he could never do that, he would've been straight for Azkaban. So he came to Muriel's with me, Ginny, and Fred and George …"

Molly was beginning to hiccough. "Fred … and George. Those … boys! Every night they would … would sneak out of the house to … to do that radio show! And … every single night I was terrified … terrified that they wouldn't come back! The Ministry … had corrupt Aurors and Death Eaters and Snatchers combing the country for them! I'd … I'd sit up for hours after everyone went to bed just … just waiting for them to return! And they did. They always did. Always so … so delighted to have outsmarted their trackers. Fred … Fred was the loudest of the pair, as usual. Woke everyone up with his laughing - I thought Muriel was going to hex him for it that last night. The night before … before … before he died!

"Oh, Neville! Why didn't I stop him from going to Hogwarts that day?"

"It wasn't your fault, Molly," said Neville gently.

"But I'm his mother!" she gasped, thumping her chest with a hand. Her face crumpled again, and Neville almost cried himself when she added: "Can I even say that anymore, if he's dead? Or am I supposed to say I _was _his mother?"

A choking sob ripped from her throat. "I don't even know what to say now when people ask how many children I have! Seven, or six? If I say seven, people will surely wonder. But if I say six, it's like wiping my boy from existence. But he _did _exist! And I _am_ his mother! That doesn't stop just because he's gone. So I don't care what anyone says! Oh, Fred! My boy! My baby! _My Fred!_"

It was too much for her; Molly sank to the ground once more and wept bitterly. Neville swallowed the lump that had lodged itself firmly in his throat when she had struggled to count her children and pulled her into his arms, rocking her gently back and forth once again, letting her tears spill for as long as they were needed to wash away the worst of her raw grief. He was aware that time was marching on; the cloud bank had travelled a fair distance east and the wind was picking up, but it was of no matter. Not anymore. If they missed the noon deadline, they missed it. Right now, Molly came first. End of.

A good while later, when her breathing finally evened out, Molly once again withdrew from his embrace and wiped self-consciously at her face.

Crikey, she looked terrible!

Neville searched through his pockets for another hankie, knowing it was probably fruitless. The matronly witch's eyes were so red and swollen, it was a miracle she could see through them; her nose was practically running off her face; and that famous red hair, always so neat and orderly, was sticking out wildly from her head. Wow, she'd need a brush too, and he definitely didn't have one of _them_ in his pockets.

Shrugging off his knapsack, the teenager opened it and dug inside. He pulled out one of the empty containers that had held his Flaming Ferns and peeled off the lid. Aiming the wand at the tub, he fired a cleaning charm into it and filled it with cool water, then transfigured the lid into a washcloth. Without a word, he picked them up and handed them to his Guardian - she smiled at him gratefully. Turning away to afford her a little privacy, Neville used the time to delve into the knapsack once more. Unfortunately, he had no brush, but a comb would do just as well, wouldn't it?

When he turned back to proffer her the comb, he found that Molly was already smoothing her hair back into place with a heavy silver brush. She had obviously transfigured the washcloth for the purpose, so he slipped the comb back into his bag and shouldered it again.

"How are you feeling, Molly?" he enquired gently, afraid of tipping her over the edge again. He needn't have worried; with her face washed and hair brushed, the witch was making a concerted effort to regain her equilibrium. The scarlet hue of an aggrieved, and grieving, mother had slipped from her cheeks, leaving them pale and wan; her eyes were puffy, though no longer streaming; and she offered a weak smile.

"Perfectly all right, dear," she lied bravely. "There's nothing like a little emotional outburst to cheer you right up!" With a wave of her wand, she vanished the washing accoutrements and faced him rather sheepishly. "I'm only sorry you had to witness it. You must think me rather a silly so-and-so!"

An outrageous claim, as far as Neville was concerned. He thought her anything _but_ silly, and told her so.

"Course you're not. If you can't have a cry at a time like this, then when can you? Anyway, if I'd've told Aragorn straight away to keep his brothers out of your sight, you'd never have been upset in the first place."

"Don't be silly, Neville," admonished Molly, straightening her tweed coat. "You couldn't possibly have kept me away from them forever. Besides, I wouldn't have thanked you for it. I'm a grown woman and I can certainly make up my own mind about who I choose to meet. Anyway, maybe it was for the better that I saw them now."

The remark puzzled him, and he gave her a questioning look. She shrugged half-heartedly. "This way, I won't have to break down back home in England the first time I see a pair of identical twins. Can you imagine it? Me, six months from now, shopping in Diagon Alley for a new pair of winter wellies, and I suddenly go hysterical after running into the Spencer twins at Forster's Footwear? Or worse; the Duncan triplets. Heavens, I might even forget what I'm doing and Disapparate with a pair of boots in my hand before I'd even paid for them. I'd be a criminal! Do you think the Ministry sends people to Azkaban for stealing Wellington boots?"

Molly looked so horrified at the thought that Neville chuckled. "No, I think that would be a bit extreme."

She forced a laugh of her own, then summoned her Cleansweep from the side of the chestnut tree. He hadn't even noticed it was there until that moment. With a final sniff, Molly cocked an eyebrow. "Well, shall we get back, dear?"

It was a good idea, given that they were supposed to be leaving for Dol Amroth in an hour; but the thought of dragging her back to Helm's Deep when she had barely recovered from her emotional outburst didn't sit well with him. All it might take was another sighting of Aragorn's brothers to set her off again, unless they had had the good sense to hide themselves somewhere that she'd never think to go (like the shallow gully behind the Hornburg that passed for the men's latrine) ...

"Maybe we should stop here a little while longer, Molly," Neville suggested casually, hoping she wouldn't guess at his ruse to give her more time to recover.

He didn't fool her. "Stop here? Whatever for, dear?" she asked, watching him knowingly. "You needn't worry about me, you know. I feel much better than I did a couple of hours ago. Besides," the witch averted her gaze, as if what she was about to reveal was shameful, "with a little help from Calamity Cuthbert's All-Purpose Calming Draught, I'm quite able to return to the fortress without making any further spectacle of myself."

"You took a Calming Draught?" he squawked in disbelief. She didn't strike him as the type. "When? I never saw you."

Molly flushed. "There's no need to announce it to all of Rohan, Neville. I don't exactly go around swallowing them as if they were mother's milk. And I took it after I washed my face, something you didn't see because you were digging around in your knapsack for a comb. So I'm quite ready to leave if you are. Anyway, I'll have to apologise to Aragorn's brothers for running away from them the way I did. I think they're probably more used to ladies running _towards_ them than _away_ from them, as handsome as they are."

A good point. But, Calming Draught or not, Neville wasn't sure it was the best idea for her to face them again - at least, not so soon.

"Well, that's great. But I was thinking more that this'll be the last chance we have to stretch our legs for a while, so we might as well enjoy it. You and I are leaving for Dol Amroth shortly."

The revelation caught her off guard. "Doll what? Is that a toy shop? It's hardly the time for a shopping spree! And who would I buy one for? Ginny's too old for dolls; not that she ever had any. Hated them, as a matter of fact. Whenever I brought one home for her, she'd use it to whack gnomes from the garden. I gave up in the end. Still, I didn't think they had such things as toy shops in Middle Earth."

Neville grinned. "Not a toy shop. 'Dol' with one 'l'. Dol Amroth. It's the port city of Belfalas in Southern Gondor. Aragorn thinks we should go there to warn them about the extra troops Sauron'll probably send after that, er, conversation I had with him. He thinks the entire region might need our help, if things get sticky."

"Oh, he does, does he? Well, if that's what he thinks, then I'm sure he knows best. It is a little sudden though. Why didn't he tell us back in Isengard?"

"Dunno," replied Neville with a shrug. "Maybe he needed some time to mull over the options and he's just made his mind up now. He's right though: someone has to warn them. Seems only fair it's me, since I've probably sent Merlin knows how many orcs sailing down the Anduin in their direction."

"Well, when you put it like that it does make sense. Poor Aragorn. So much to organise, so little time to spare."

Her words made Neville squirm. Aragorn had actually looked a bit peaky that morning - not surprising given the responsibilities he shouldered. True, they were _all_ under pressure, Neville included; but all the _teenager_ really had to do was point his wand where the locals told him to and fire. Aragorn had been making all the real decisions: where to go, which battle to fight, how to survive against the odds. What's more, Neville would bet his entire Mimbulus Mimbletonia that the ranger hadn't slept since before they'd arrived at Orthanc. No wonder he'd snapped at him. And Neville had snapped back …

Blimey, but he was a git. Maybe not a _complete_ git; no one liked to hear they were a disappointment, but still. He could've given Aragorn a chance to apologise before Disapparating. The lordly man had clearly wanted to do so, but Neville had been too angry to listen to it.

He sighed, feeling a little peeved at himself. What did his pride matter when so much was at stake? Wasn't Aragorn fighting with every breath he drew to save his world? To save his people? To save other mothers from enduring the pain he had just witnessed in Molly?

It was what they were _all_ fighting for, wasn't it?

Squaring his jaw, Neville drew himself up straight, determined to apologise to his friend as soon as he got back.

"Yes," he said in a decisive tone. "Aragorn does have a lot to do. So let's go see if we can take a little weight off his shoulders, shall we?"

Molly gave him a strange look. "Is everything all right, dear?"

"Yes," he lied, avoiding her eyes. There was no way he was going to tell her about his run-in with the ranger: if she knew they'd been arguing about her, she'd be furious. And if there was one thing he knew from witnessing it first-hand, neither he nor Aragorn would stand a chance against a furious Molly Weasley. Bellatrix Lestrange would vouch for that.

Or she would if she was still alive …

"Everything's just fine. Are you ready?" She nodded and raised her wand expectantly. Neville drew his own and together they turned on the spot; with a loud _crack! _and a soft _pop! _they were gone.

**000**

"Ah, lad! There you are! I was beginning to wonder if you would ever return. Where in the name of Mahal did you go?"

Gimli was striding through the Hornburg gates and down the causeway towards Neville and Molly seconds after they Apparated back to Helm's Deep. He drew level and offered Molly as courtly a bow as he could whilst clutching his axe and travelling bag in one hand, and his bedroll under the opposite arm.

"Lady Molly, I hope you are feeling well," he said kindly, politely ignoring her puffy face. Molly cleared her throat.

"Oh, thank you, Gimli, dear. Yes, I'm feeling quite well. I must've had something in my eye, but it's gone now, thankfully," she replied smoothly.

It was an outrageous fib, but the dwarf was far too gracious to challenge her on it. Indeed, he went out of his way to reinforce it.

"No doubt a stray clod of earth from the field, my Lady," said Gimli seriously. "Hardly surprising with all these blasted mules churning up the grass." He leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially: "'Tis a wonder you did not lose an eye, if I may say so. Horses! Good for naught but ploughing fields and making mischief, regardless of what the Elf says. I cannot even find our own to surrender my baggage into its care! No doubt a deliberate attempt by the creature to vex me! I tell you this now; once our quest is over, I will never sit my dwarven rump on one again."

Neville, who was of an accord with the dwarf in this matter, nodded in agreement as Gimli thumped his axe (and by default his travelling bag) on the dirt to emphasize his point.

Molly smiled in relief, obviously thankful that he was willing to overlook her dramatic flight that morning. "Yes, that was it. A little bit of earth. Well, I'd better go and make sure we have everything packed if we're leaving shortly - I'm so terribly behind schedule now. I'll see you later, boys."

"Fare thee well until then. And tread carefully as you go; if you need protection from any more clod-kicking hooves - or aught else, for that matter - you need only call. It will be both my duty and my delight to be of service to my witchly sister."

To Neville and Gimli's surprise, Molly gave the dwarf (and his accompanying baggage) a very spontaneous hug.

"Yes, you would, wouldn't you? That's because you're everything a big brother ought to be," she said in a suspiciously gruff voice. She released the stunned dwarf a few seconds later, straightened her hair and left the startled menfolk staring after her as she disappeared into the fortress.

"Is she recovered, lad?" asked Gimli quietly once she had faded from sight.

"She's a bit better now that the shock of running into the twins has worn off. Dunno if she'll ever recover, though. Can't be easy losing a child. It's every parent's worst nightmare, isn't it? But Molly's stronger than she looks; she'll learn to live with it for the sake of her family."

"And for her own sake also, I hope," said Gimli sadly. He heaved the bedroll a little further up so that it was secured once more under his arm and turned his shrewd gaze on the teenager. "And what of you, lad? Are you recovered also?"

There could be no doubt he was referring to Neville's spat with Aragorn, and Neville shifted awkwardly on his feet. But he didn't avoid the question.

"I've calmed down, if that's what you mean. I was actually going to look for Aragorn. You don't happen to know where he is?"

"Aye, that I do. But I will only tell you if you promise not to put an evil spell upon him - or at least, not until we have beaten the Dark Lord and all his foul carrion into submission. We cannot manage without Aragorn before then."

A grin split the teenager's face. "I'll try to hold back until then, Gimli," he promised with a chuckle. "But only for you."

"Very well." Gimli's brown eyes twinkled with mirth. "He is behind you, lad."

Mortification gripped Neville and the smile froze on his face. Oh, no! Aragorn had snuck up behind him and now thought he was going to hex him at the earliest opportunity! Not exactly the reconciliation Neville had been hoping for …

"Thanks, Gimli," he hissed at his bushy friend, who was enjoying his discomfort immensely: the dwarf's shoulders were shaking with laughter. Neville rotated slowly on the spot, not entirely prepared for the sudden meeting (he had been hoping to practise some sort of a speech while he tracked the ranger down) and his eyes landed on the tall, stately figure of Aragorn. Legolas stood serenely by his side. The ranger looked a good deal fresher than he had when they had last spoken; it was obvious that he had been resting.

Great. _He_ was still knackered, of course. Three hours sleep followed by an unbelievably emotional morning hadn't exactly left him feeling his usual chipper self. Neville didn't even know what to say to the man, now that he was standing in front of him. Oh, if only he had Gran's gift of the gab!

"You are back before the noon hour as promised, young Wizard," said Aragorn quietly. His voice was as even as his face, and Neville couldn't gauge the ranger's mood because of it.

Crikey, he didn't give much away, did he? Had he calmed down, too? Was he coming to call a truce? Did he regret what had happened that morning? Would he accept Neville's apology for leaving so abruptly? Or was he going to demand that, once the teenager reached Dol Amroth, he keep on riding until he fell off the edge of the earth?

"Er, yes," said Neville, trying to sound calmer than he felt. He snuck a look at his watch: it was half past eleven. "Not much before it, mind you."

Aragorn waved a finger in dismissal. "It matters not. You said that you would return ere the noon hour, and that you have. Your Guardian is well?"

The concern in his voice was evident. Neville nodded. "Yeah, she's much better, thanks. She's just nipped off to pack up."

"I see. Good. The news warms my heart. Distress is as distressing to witness as it is to experience, particularly when it is the distress of a friend."

Very, very true. Aragorn's use of the word 'distress' was a bit … distressing … though, but he still made a valid point.

They fell into a short, awkward silence, and Neville suddenly wished that the others would sod off and leave him to have his embarrassing chat with the ranger in peace. As if reading his mind …

"Come, Gimli. Let us gather our belongings for the ride ahead," said Legolas, looking pointedly at the dwarf. Gimli (with bedroll, bag and axes already insitu) scowled.

"Has the far sight of your kind failed you, Elf? I carry my belongings already. 'Tis the blasted mule we must gather!"

Legolas rolled his eyes. "Then let us gather it, my hirsute friend."

Neville experienced a brief surge of relief. Good - this would be a bit easier without witnesses.

But his relief was short-lived; Aragorn had other ideas. He grabbed Legolas by the arm to halt his friend's departure.

"Stay, I beg you …"

What? No, don't. Sod off!

The teenager swallowed nervously, then remembered he was trying to act more manly and straightened his shoulders instead.

"… for it is only fair to Neville that the apology I make now is witnessed by at least two of those who also witnessed my unjust treatment of him."

Aragorn was going to apologise first? Great! That would make his own easier to deal with. But in front of his friends?

Neville winced. Somehow that didn't feel right. A lordly man like the ranger shouldn't have to grovel in front of spectators. Neville would've been happy with a simple 'Sorry, mate', after which they could indulge in some mutual arm-slapping (which appeared to be the norm in Middle Earth), and laugh at the silly misunderstanding they'd had earlier. Maybe swap a few friendly insults to strengthen their bond once more (a trait universal to all males, he could now say with certainty - regardless of which world they came from).

He was definitely drawing the line at man-hugs though. Ugh!

No, Aragorn grovelling in front of his mates made the young wizard distinctly uncomfortable.

Not that Neville was _going_ to let him grovel, of course.

Well, maybe just a little bit …

He felt eyes upon his face and raised his own to meet the ranger's grey orbs. Aragorn looked so serious and repentant (and Legolas and Gimli so expectant of what was to come), that he felt a pang of sympathy for the poor git.

Sod it. Grovelling was definitely out! He couldn't watch his friend squirm. Neville would apologise first. Not for what he said, because he'd meant (almost) every word of it; but he definitely should've behaved in a more responsible manner.

"Look, Aragorn," he began before the older man could begin, "it's all right. Honestly. Don't worry about it. It's been a long few days - no, a long few _weeks_ - for everyone, what with all the running and riding and fighting we've done. We're overworked and underpaid …"

Wait a minute; that last bit wasn't right. They were warriors caught in a desperate race to save the world, not Argus Filch moaning about mopping the stairwell. Neville untied his tongue and tried again.

" … I mean, we're all tired and stressed. Something was bound to give eventually, and it did. You shouted, I shouted; we both said things we didn't mean … apart from the nice things I said about you. I meant them."

Ruddy heck! He was spiralling into teenage idiocy again. Grow up, Longbottom!

"What I didn't mean," he continued, with a bit more conviction in his voice, "was to disappear and leave you hanging like that. It was childish and stupid. You were right about one or two things, you know: I do need to get my priorities sorted. I need to grow up and stop being afraid of what people think of me. Not that I _am_ afraid of what people think of me - well, not nearly as much as I used to be. You should've met me three or four years ago. Nightmare. My point, though, is that I should've handled the Molly situation a whole lot better. In fact, I should've just left straight away to find her, instead of lingering around to pick a fight."

"Nay, Neville," said Aragorn, interrupting him with a firm shake of the head. "I will not hear of you judging yourself thus. You acquitted yourself to the best of your abilities given the nature of the unexpected dilemma. Not only that, but you taught me a lesson in humility. A much needed one of late, I guess. Isildur's heir or nay, I will never be so high-born as to be above reproach. I am still accountable for my own errors in judgement, and I _will_ answer for the grievous insult I gave you this day."

Grievous insult? Hmm. That was a bit much. Still, Middle Earthlings loved their drama, so who was he to deprive the ranger of his fun?

"It may be that you could have spoken more directly of your Guardian's anguish ere she saw my kin, young Neville, but you recognised your error immediately and apologised for it. It was beneath me to have called you to account for it a second time after you had done so," began Aragorn, holding his gaze steadily. "I also accused you of callous disregard for her pain, yet you saw her real need before any other. Disdain was heavy on my lips when I accused you of not being the Man you ought to be. But let me say this now: ignorance is not exclusive to the young, for I displayed it in abundance when we quarrelled. I misjudged your intent and called you to task for it too quickly, and too harshly, ere I allowed you to explain, and for this, I ask your pardon."

The ranger took a step towards Neville, and his voice dropped a notch. There was no doubting the sincerity behind the words he spoke.

"You have not disappointed me since first we met, Neville Longbottom. I doubt that you ever could - and if I ever met your grandmother, I would tell her this, that she may recognise the worth of the Man she calls 'grandson'. Yes, Man I name you, for that is what you are. Contrary to what I claimed earlier, diplomacy is not the only attribute that marks the rocky passage into manhood, nor is the restraining of one's passions. Nay, my friend. To look an accuser - a friend - in the eye and tell him he errs, and to do so with conviction and dignity, this is the measure of a Man. A Man of courage and character. A Man such as yourself. You say I remind you of your father? Then I say to you this: had I a son such as you, I would count myself among the proudest of fathers in Arda."

Silence fell when Aragorn finished, but the ranger kept his gaze locked on the young wizard, awaiting his response. Neville was speechless for a moment.

Crikey, that was some apology! Proudest of fathers in Arda? That was touching. Really touching.

His throat tightened, and his eyes grew hot. Might his own father have said something similar to him if he had survived the wars with his senses intact? Would Frank Longbottom have been as proud of the man he had become as Aragorn now said that he was? Neville fervently hoped so. He would never know for certain, but somehow Aragorn's words helped.

The weight of three pairs of eyes rested on him now, boring into him, waiting for his reaction and Neville sniffed suspiciously.

Oh, Merlin! If he started bawling now, Aragorn might revise his high opinion of him …

Pulling himself together took a concerted effort, but Neville managed it.

"Thank you, Aragorn. That means a lot. And apology accepted, not that it was needed. I forgave you ages ago. As for the measure of a man? That can also be judged by the way he treats his friends. You treat yours with honour, respect and kindness."

"Perhaps not always, Neville," interjected the ranger with a wry grin.

Neville returned the smile. "No, perhaps not always. But practically always. Nobody's perfect, are they? We're only human, after all." He threw a glance and a smirk at Legolas and Gimli, then added, "Well, most of us are human."

The four males chuckled.

"Anyway, you're still up there among the best of them, and that's what matters. You have so many good qualities that I'd be crippled with arthritis before I finished reeling them off; seems only fair to the rest of us mere mortals that you balance all that good fortune out with with the occasional strop. Either way, if you're half as good a king as you are a friend, then Gondor and Arnor are in for the best reign of their collective existence."

"Well said, Neville Longbottom," murmured Legolas in approval as Aragorn took a step closer and reached out towards the teenager. Neville plastered a fake grin on his face, but inside he was panicking.

_Please, please, please, not a man-hug! Not a man-hug!_ was his silent mantra as he recalled Aragorn's greeting of Halbarad the night before. They had been practically snogging.

Luckily, he was spared that. The ranger settled for the trusty old arm-slap instead. Well, more of an arm-clasp and a nod of deepest appreciation, but it was still better than a cuddle-fest with the future king of the world. Royalist that she was, even Gran would have raised a thinly pencilled brow or two at that.

Arm-slap or -clasp aside, the semi-embrace dispelled any lingering tension between the two, much to everyone's relief.

"Come now, my young friend. Now that we are of an accord once more, let us seek out the Lady Molly. We must let her know of our plans for the southern provinces of Gondor."

"She knows, actually. I've already told her we're leaving for Dol Amroth," Neville informed the trio as they walked back over the field. They passed a host of riders, and he noted for the first time since his return that the Rohirrim were readying to leave. All they appeared to be waiting on was their king. "She doesn't know your cousin will be guiding us yet, though. And, er, now that I remember, she doesn't know about our little … discussion ... earlier. Might be better for Middle Earth if we kept it that way. Molly will have a fit if she thinks we were arguing about her."

The ranger agreed. "An excellent point. I have not forgotten what she did to the traitor Saruman by Fangorn's eaves." All four males shivered collectively as they recalled her description of the Burning Serpent. "'Twould be a pity for us to be united in friendship once more, only to be cursed by her hand for our earlier folly. Pray tell me; how long exactly does that dreadful affliction last?"

"Didn't she say something about a few days?"

"_Days?_" Gimli exclaimed in unconcealed horror. "Mahal's beard, but if Saruman was not the most dishonourable excuse for a Wizard I have ever met, I would pity him! Aye lad, let us keep silent on this point. In fact, it may be wise to seek out your kin, Aragorn; for if they find her before we do, you may both suffer yet."

Neville screeched to a halt. Merlin, but Gimli had a point! He swapped a look of dismay with Aragorn and, reaching a silent understanding, they broke into a sprint towards the causeway, leaving two sympathetic males trailing in their desperate wake.

**000**

Luckily for Neville and Aragorn, they did manage to locate Halbarad, Elladan and Elrohir. As it was, the elves and man were far too discreet to have mentioned their argument to Molly when they met her in the Glittering Caves ten minutes later. One of the twins - Elrohir - had opted to remain with the Dúnedain to limit her exposure to them, but she guessed at this as soon as she met his brother and, in true Molly fashion, was having none of it. Within five minutes, the other had been fetched (by Aragorn) and Elladan and Elrohir stood side by side once more.

"There, that's better!" she announced in apparent satisfaction.

Neville watched her carefully, ready to whisk her away if the encounter became an ordeal, but - though her eyes shone a touch too brightly - no actual tears fell. She didn't even sniff once, leading him to wonder if the red-haired witch and Calamity Cuthbert had perhaps recently reacquainted themselves with each other. The other four males, though they all knew differently, were gracious enough to accept the excuse Gimli had helped fabricate for her; that she'd been hit in the eye by a flying clod of earth at precisely the same moment as she had spotted the twins.

"The high valley winds are at fault, I do not doubt," said Halbarad sagely, and the matter was dismissed thereafter.

Molly made a point of shaking the twins' hands, though Neville suspected it was less a greeting and more to prove to herself that she could treat them as any other new arrivals. All the same, he was eternally grateful that Aragorn's brothers did not indulge in the same boisterous banter around her that they had partaken of when he first met them. Calamity Cuthbert notwithstanding, that might have been too much.

Elladan and Elrohir were the very epitome of kindness to his Guardian; all smiles and patience. Whatever elf-magic they possessed seemed to calm her better than any draught could, and she fairly glowed when each took an arm and led her from the Glittering Caves out into the bright light of day.

"Each of us has done for these noble Men what we may, honoured Lady," said one. "Including you. Our athelas and your potions will aid the healers of Rohan in tending to what remains of the wounded. Come, walk with us and tell my brother and I more of your home ere we part."

And so they strolled behind the fortress whilst Neville and the others gathered the last of the horses and led them towards the pockmarked field that lay in front of the Deeping Wall. Merry joined the teenager as soon as he heard he was back, and the hobbit's chatter cheered him up no end.

"I hear you're riding with the king and I for a spell," said Merry cheerfully as they led Fæleu through the archway, across the narrow walkway, and out through the ruined gates to join the main company. "Isn't that funny? A _Wizard_ joining us for a _spell!_"

Merry beamed at his own wit, and Neville laughed.

"Very funny, Merry," he said appreciatively, almost running into the horse ahead in his distraction. He managed to dodge the descending hoof before his toes were crushed. "But yeah. Molly and I are heading south, so we might as well come with you part of the way. We could have waited to ride with the Dúnedain - Aragorn says they might be an hour or two yet - but I think it's best if we set off as soon as possible."

That way, Molly wouldn't have to spend any more time around the twins. She might be coping just now, but he didn't want her to become overexposed to them in case it became too much for her. Best to take things one step at a time and separate them at the earliest opportunity.

"That's good. That's _really_ good," Merry exclaimed. Neville cocked an eyebrow in amusement at his enthusiasm, and the hobbit's tone grew more solemn. "I've missed you and Molly. I've missed _all_ of you. It wasn't so bad at first because Pippin was there. But he's gone now. Legolas and Gimli will be riding off with Aragorn and the Rangers. Even Frodo and Sam have left me. I wonder how _they_ are …"

So did the young wizard. He also wondered _where_ they were, and whether they had managed to elude Gollum, the Black Riders, and the roving Eye of Sauron; but he didn't speak these thoughts aloud for fear of worrying his companion.

Merry trailed off for a few seconds. "I like the Rohirrim, Neville, especially the king. He made me his esquire, you know. But sometimes I feel like … like …"

"Like a spare part?" suggested the teenager sympathetically. "Like you're being left behind?"

Merry looked up with a sad smile and nodded. "Have you ever felt like that?"

"I think we all have, at one time or another. But you're not being left behind, and you're definitely not a spare part. Look at how you managed to talk the Ents into destroying Orthanc!"

"To be fair, I think they were going to do that anyway, Neville. Or at least that's what I understood from Treebeard. So at the very most, all Pippin and I did was make it happen a little faster."

"But you made it happen at the right time, Merry," insisted Neville. "Who knows what damage Saruman would be causing now if you hadn't. What's more …" He paused to tug at the reins and guide his miserable nag off the causeway and over to the assembled Rohirrim, "you may well be at the very forefront of the action again, soon. That doesn't sound like someone who's been left behind to me."

"Really? The forefront of the action?" There was wonder in Merry's voice as he gazed up. "How do you know that?"

Neville felt a surge of affection for his hobbit friend: the excitement in Merry's voice was unmistakable. But the affection was soon replaced by worry as he realised what lay ahead for him, and very soon he almost regretted speaking. It was so easy to forget sometimes that Merry was almost twice his age; the hobbit's innocent face, curly head and wide eyes, coupled with his youthful exuberance, could easily lull one into a false sense of perception. He seemed so … _young_, so vulnerable.

It was so bloody unfair that he had to fight at all.

Ignoring Merry's earnest face and pressing questions, Neville lost himself in thought for a moment. If he had his way, Merry and Pippin would both be tucked away safely in their beloved Shire, as would Frodo and Sam - in fact, he would make sure all of them were far, far away from the rigours of hard travel and the horrors of war. Actually, if he had his own way, the war would have been over before it began, and Sauron would be sharing a nice hot pit down under with Tom Riddle and Bellatrix Lestrange (where they might compare notes on their respective downfalls between roastings).

But - like it or not - Neville _didn't_ have his own way. And innocent or not, all the hobbits were of age (at least by Wizarding standards), and more than capable of making their own decisions. Hadn't they had chosen to fight for what they believed in? Who was he to gainsay them? No, the hobbits were smack in the middle of this war, and he must let them do their part, even if it meant them risking their lives for what they loved. To treat them other than the adults they were, to mollycoddle them or hide them from their respective fates, would be grossly disrespectful. Especially when he (several years their junior) would object to the very same treatment.

"Neville? How do you know that?"

The teenager was pulled from his musings by Merry's insistent voice.

"Sorry, Merry. I don't exactly _know_ it. It's just an assumption."

Merry looked a little confused, so he elaborated.

"What I mean is that Molly and I are off to Dol Amroth to stave off any attacks from the extra troops Sauron might send down south, after that little chat I had with him."

'Chat' indeed. Talk about understatement; the memory of that encounter still gave him the collywobbles.

"Chances are that we'll still be busy if, or _when_, Sauron attacks Minas Tirith," he continued, shaking the memory of the Eye from his mind, "As for Aragorn and the others, they're off to the Paths of the Dead …"

"The what?" interrupted Merry.

Hmm. Seems like Aragorn hadn't shared that with the hobbit yet. No wonder Merry felt like a spare part.

"The Paths of the Dead," he repeated, attempting to recall what Aragorn had told him while Molly was entertaining the older man's elven brothers. "A big army of, well, ghosts I suppose. They live … or rather, they _exist_ in the valley of Harrowdale, not too far from Dunharrow, where Éowyn's supposed to have taken the women and children of Edoras. A place called the Haunted Mountain …"

Catchy name. Very original. Sir Nick would love it.

"… ever heard of it?"

Curls bounced wildly to and fro as Merry shook his head in the negative.

"Oh. Well, anyway, apparently they reneged on an oath they swore to fight for Gondor during the first war with Sauron. Isildur went completely bonkers and cursed them for it, so that when they died, they became ghosts instead of ... erm … instead of …"

Instead of what?

"Instead of sitting on clouds and playing harps for all eternity," he finished with a helpless shrug. Merry threw him a dubious look.

"Harps on clouds? Really?"

Good question.

"Yeah. Something like that. Anyway, they won't be promoted to cloud-duty until they keep their promise, so Aragorn's off to the Haunted Mountain with Legolas, Gimli, and the Dúnedain to get their help. And Merlin knows how long that will take. So do you see what I'm getting at? If Théoden's only going to stop off at Edoras to collect his men, and take both them _and_ you to Minas Tirith, you might very well encounter Sauron's army before any of the rest of us. We'll all be fighting to catch up with you."

"Oh." Merry was silent for a minute while he digested this, and when he spoke again, they had finally reached the Riders of Rohan and Neville was eyeing Fæleu in speculation (wondering if she'd let him up without promptly tossing him back off again). "Fighting to catch up with me. That sounds … good."

His tone indicated that Merry was in two minds about the revelation. But, hobbit that he was, he shrugged off his uncertainty and focussed on the positive.

"I'll try to leave all of you _some_ orcs to dispose of, just so you don't feel you've wasted a journey."

"Thanks, Merry. That's very big of you," quipped Neville with a grin. Merry beamed.

"Big of me? I like that! No one's ever said it to me before. Well, you can't blame them, can you? 'Big' and 'Hobbit' don't usually appear in the same sentence. Or at least they didn't until Hobbit met Ent-draught." He puffed out his chest proudly. "I might hear it more often now, though."

Neville doubted it.

Blissfully unaware of the teenager's scepticism, he continued. "And won't the Dead be happy to see good old Strider, if it means they'll soon be free to play with their harps?"

Er, possibly not. From what Neville understood, they were never happy to see _anyone_. Everyone who had dared to enter their domain had disappeared for good. Middle Earth's ghosts didn't sound as cuddly as those who inhabited Hogwarts. He _really_ hoped Aragorn managed to convince them of his lineage before they offed him …

Neville was just about to stick his foot in a stirrup and pull himself up when:

"Neville?"

He postponed his ascent to stare at Merry in question. "What?"

"Who's Merlin?"

"He was the most powerful wizard in my world."

"More powerful than you?"

The teenager laughed. "Definitely. There's no competition."

"And Molly?"

"Yes. Even more powerful than Molly."

"What about Gandalf? Was he more powerful than Gandalf."

Hmm. Great question. Which one of them would win in a duel?

"Dunno. I've not really seen what Gandalf can do, but ... possibly. Our magic's somewhat different to Gandalf's, though, so I can't say for certain."

"Which one of them do you think would win in a wizardly fight, then?"

Neville laughed again when Merry voiced aloud the very same question he'd posed to himself seconds before.

"Who knows? It's not an issue anyway, because they'd never fight each other. They're both light wizards. Besides, Merlin died a long time ago."

"Oh. That makes a difference then, doesn't it? Never mind. Gandalf's busy in Minas Tirith anyway. And Merlin … well, he's busy too, I imagine. Playing a magical harp on a cloud somewhere, I should think."

Merry tipped his curly head back and gazed up at the sky, hoping to spot a kindly old man waving down at them as he floated past Helm's Deep.

Théoden chose that moment to appear from the Hornburg with Éomer in tow, followed by Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli. Next came Halbarad, bearing the furled banner he hadn't let out of his sight since the two companies had arrived at the fortress. Elladan and Elrohir escorted a blushing Molly in the ranger's wake; the witch seemingly more at ease in their company than when she had first spotted them.

Monarch and heir led the distinguished group down the causeway and onto the green, and all except Halbarad, who veered towards the Dúnedain, made for the almost three-thousand-strong company of Rohirrim.

"Master Holbytla!" called Éomer when he spotted the hobbit in passing, "we have found a trusty mount for you. Stybba is his name, and he shall bear you proudly in the company of the King of the Mark. Come now, young esquire; see to your liege, and let the Wizard of Awes alone with his beloved mate."

A chorus of snorts and laughter rose from the nearest riders and Neville scowled at Éomer in annoyance as the big man walked past throwing a friendly wink in his direction.

Git.

"Fear not, young Neville," said a laughing Aragorn, coming to a halt beside him as Merry trotted off to follow the king, "I have made clear to him now that there are subtle differences between your speech and ours. He laughs now only at his misunderstanding from yester-noon."

"Thanks, Aragorn," he said, ignoring the hearty chuckles aimed in his (and _not_ Éomer's) direction.

Slipping his left foot into the stirrup once more, the teenager pulled himself up and over onto Fæleu's saddle and grabbed the reins. Molly extricated herself from the twins' grasp and pulled her knapsack from her shoulders, freeing her Cleansweep. Within seconds, she was floating beside him (much to the fascination of Elladan and Elrohir, who were discreetly waving their hands underneath the broom in an attempt to fathom how it remained so miraculously airborne).

Aragorn smiled up at Neville. "And so we come to a parting of ways, for the present, son of Longbottom. Have you provision enough for a journey of so many days?"

"Don't worry about that, dear," said Molly cheerfully. "I still have more than enough to last for a good while yet."

"Yeah, Molly packed enough food to feed a village for a month, Aragorn. The only way we'll starve now is if she loses her pack."

"Which I have no intention of doing," finished the witch.

"I doubt it not for an instant, my Lady," replied Aragorn warmly. "Here comes Halbarad, my kin from the North. He will guide you through safe paths to the southern provinces."

"Or as safe as they may be in such times," muttered Gimli in the background. The dwarf moved quickly aside to allow Halbarad passage on his tall grey horse.

"Yes, we've already talked about that." Neville nodded a greeting to the dark-haired ranger, which Halbarad returned in kind. "He suggested the Blackroot Vale. That's where you're going, isn't it?"

"Yes, though we shall stop far short of it first, for a time at least. But your own journey is the more desperate errand for the moment." Aragorn regarded him gravely. "We cannot know whether Sauron has already acted to counter your promise of setting starry ships against his forces, though I suspect that he has. He would be foolish to ignore such a threat to his plans at this late stage. Though Minas Tirith may find relief at the subsequent reduction in enemy forces which assails her, the southern provinces may stagger and fall with the weight of the added burden. 'Tis therefore best that you hasten with all speed to warn the lords of Lamedon, Belfalas and Lebennin respectively, that they may raise their defences and evacuate the women and children to safety."

_The weight of the added burden_. It was not an accusation on his friend's part, but Neville was nonetheless beginning to regret his hasty words to the Eye of Sauron. It made him all the keener to leave for Dol Amroth. Or Lamedon. Or wherever it was they were headed off to first. Crikey, he'd better have a word with Halbarad before they arrived there, so he didn't greet the incumbent lord with the wrong title. Wouldn't do to offend the locals. In fact, he'd better find out _who_ was lord of which province.

"We shall see it done, Aragorn," said Halbarad, who sat tall and proud on his horse. The banner had finally been surrendered, though to whom Neville had no idea. Probably one of the Dúnedain, who waited fifty yards away to his right on the other side of the causeway.

"Of course we shall," agreed Molly with a decisive nod of the head. "And if those rotten orcs dare to set as much as a toe inside the Anduin, we'll hack it off and owl it back to Mordor, marked special delivery."

Halbarad and the elven twins frowned in bemusement at the expression, but everyone else grinned, being more familiar with the wizard and witch's manner of speech.

"I would give much to see the expression on the Dark Lord's face if he took ownership of such a gift," said Legolas with a surprisingly evil grin.

"You'd have to give 'much'," retorted Neville quickly. "He doesn't have a face. Just a big, infected Eye. Take it from me; I've seen it firsthand."

There was a round of laughter from his friends, and it gave the teenager heart for the journey ahead.

"Fare thee well, lad, Lady Molly. I am certain Master Halbarad will see you both swiftly to your next battle, and even more certain that you shall make the Enemy quail with fear at the sight of your mighty staffs. Would that my axe could join you in hacking at their miserable necks! I shall have to satisfy myself with your full report of any and all such encounters when next we meet!" declared Gimli, thumping the haft of his axe heartily on the ground.

Neville plastered a convincing smile on his face as Gimli beamed up at him, but inside, he was filled with more than a little trepidation.

Great. No problem. Just slay a few thousand orcs while holidaying by the seaside. People probably did that every day here ...

"As shall I," said Legolas firmly, unwittingly piling on the pressure. "Nan lû e-govaded vîn, vaethor veleg!"

That must be elvish for 'Don't let us down, wizard-boy, or we'll spread the tale of your unnatural fetish for horses across all the free lands of Arda. You'll be a social outcast for the rest of your puny mortal life.'

Excellent.

And Aragorn rounded off the litany with a simple, "I have every faith in you, Neville Longbottom."

Superb. Now that he thought about it, Neville liked it much better when the ranger had been disappointed with him: at least then, Aragorn's expectations had been low …

He cleared his throat. "Right, then. Don't worry. You take care of yourselves in that Haunted Mountain, and we'll make sure that word gets to the right people, and that the battles, if there are any, are short-lived. And spectacular. Molly's really good at spectacular."

"Why, thank you, Neville, dear! What a lovely thing to say," said the witch with a broad smile.

The company was beginning to grow restless. Aragorn glanced to his left, his eyes landing on Théoden. The king was watching him expectantly. He turned once more to Neville.

"Until we meet again, Neville son of Longbottom, Molly daughter of Prewett. Our hearts and hopes go with you both on your journey, even if we ourselves do not. Halbarad is the hardiest and truest of my kin: he will guide you well. Fear not for us, for no harm shall befall those who follow Isildur's heir into the lair of the Dead. Farewell, my friends!"

With that, he bowed smartly and left them to share a few words with the king of Rohan. Legolas, Gimli and the twins exchanged a final farewell and followed after him. Neville watched them leave, and felt more than a little sad at their departure. It was the first time he had been fully sundered from the Fellowship since he arrived in Middle Earth. He threw a glance at Halbarad, hoping that he was everything Aragorn claimed him to be. Halbarad returned the stare knowingly, and the ranger did not seem the slightest bit offended by Neville's boldness; an indication that Aragorn's faith was well placed.

A sudden cry pulled him from the staring match with his new companion. The company of Rohirrim were finally ready to depart; they turned their horses in unison and Neville followed suit on Fæleu. With Molly on one side and Halbarad on the other, he threw a final look behind him at his friends as they stood before the Deeping-wall. Man, dwarf and elves raised their hands in a final farewell, and the teenager smiled at them fondly. There was a strange sort of feeling in his stomach; one that made him wonder if he would ever see them again …

Dismissing the notion as foolish, Neville dragged his eyes back to the fore, nudged his mare into motion and set off after the horse-lords as they thundered towards Helm's Dike and down the long valley. His friends were soon lost to sight.

As to whether or not he would see them again, only time would tell …

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Author's Note_: Some text and dialogue lifted from Lord of the Rings, The Return of the King, Book Five, Chapter 2: The Passing of the Grey Company.

Translation: _Nan lû e-govaded vîn, vaethor veleg!_ - Until next we meet, mighty warrior!

Bit of a cliffy, I hope. That's because plans I have long had in the making will shortly be put into action …

Bwahahahaha!

Kara's Aunty :)


	32. Riddles

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. and Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

**Credit: **www dot hp-encyclopedia dot com and www dot Tuckborough dot net, wapedia, cmhpf dot org/kids/Guideboox/RoofTypes, gb dot nrao dot edu & oh, so many, many, more...

**Reviews are my only payment - but flamers _will _be blocked.**

**Not Quite A Maia**

**Chapter 32**

* * *

_Minas Tirith_

_Third Age 10th March 3019_

Augusta Longbottom was very dissatisfied.

_Very _dissatisfied.

It was absolutely disgraceful that a witch of her calibre had been deprived of her wand and shoved into the deepest dungeons Minis Tirith had to offer when war could break out at any second.

How the blazes was she supposed to help anyone from here?

"Take that, you blubbering barbarian!"

_Slap!_

Oh no. Not again …

Much to the elderly witch's annoyance, she had been placed in the cell next to her erstwhile abductor's; which meant that, ever since her arrival early the previous morning, the Helping Hand she had conjured to aid in her escape from the ghastly fellow had been slapping him senseless. But it was not so much the _Hand_ which irked her as …

"Mercy, I beg you! Mercy!" wailed a pitiful voice.

Oh for heaven's sake. Why couldn't he take his medicine like a man? Weren't these Gondorians supposed to be a strapping bunch? And besides, if he insisted on kidnapping old women from the local establishments and roughing them up, then he should jolly well learn to live with the consequences!

"Have some of this too, you cantankerous coward!"

_Smack!_

"Please, please, I beg you; desist! I can take no more!"

Merlin, somebody make it stop!

"And a little bit more of that, you vicious vagabond!"

_Whack!_

"Naneth! I want my naneth …!" sobbed her delinquent companion wretchedly.

Idiot!

Thoroughly disgusted, the witch pulled herself up from her straw mattress and marched over to the tiny shelf that passed as a table. She poured herself a glass of water from the tall metal pitcher and drank it in one. For once in her life, she wished it _was_ wine so that she could drink herself silly and forget all about her snivelling neighbour and his pathetic requests for mummy. No doubt the woman would be feeling rather mortified right about now. Augusta would be! Imagine spawning such a child?

A set of keys rattled in the door alerting the elderly woman to another visit from her gaoler. She brushed her dress down and patted her hair so that she was at least presentable, and when the door swung open she faced the new arrival with an arch of her brow.

"Ah, young man; you wouldn't be able to do anything about that simpering idiot next door would you?"

The gaoler, a tall, dark Gondorian (she had yet to encounter any other kind) named Vandomar glowered at her from the doorway.

"I would have thought that you were in a better position than I to do stop his ravings, Sorceress."

"Me? Don't be ridiculous! How on earth am I supposed to do anything about him when that blasted wizard has my wand?"

"Then you must suffer his distress in much the same manner as I have these past two days: with resignation and acceptance."

She huffed. "If you've been suffering so much, why don't you just go into his cell, grab the Hand and put it in a bag? Stick it somewhere it might be useful?"

"For example?"

Anywhere in the vicinity of Gandalf, for a start. He could do with a good thrashing.

Augusta refrained from voicing the lovely thought. Instead, "Well I don't know. Don't the palace carpets ever need a good beating? It'll save the poor servants from having to do it."

Surprise was etched on Vandomar's face. "The beating of carpets?" He trailed of thoughtfully, then returned his wary gaze to her. "This … Hand; it will not attack me if I attempt to restrain it?"

"Of course not. I didn't charm it to slap _you_, did I? It will only punish whatshisname until it's removed either by magic, or physically contained by someone other than its intended target."

"Why did you not think to tell me this sooner?" demanded Vandomar, looking rather peeved.

"Because it was the only form of entertainment I had in this miserable place, seeing as how your Steward has forbidden me visitors. I've not even seen my own nephew since I arrived, and that was almost two days ago!" She sniffed in annoyance. "I have no books, no writing paper - not even a spot of graffiti on the walls with which to while away my time!"

This she knew because sheer boredom had driven her to scour the walls in the hope that some former prisoner had left a witty testament to his time there. Even in her cell in Orthanc there had been one or two scribbles of the like (mostly written in blood) - _Finbreth woz here_; _Saruman the White, Wart of the West_; and, most notably, a charming little ditty describing exactly where the occupant thought Saruman should shove his 'pestilential staff'. But Gondor's dungeons, though gloomy and cold, were miraculously free of such small entertainments.

Unfortunately.

"But regardless of that appalling fact," continued Augusta, "I find my amusement has been wearing ever thinner since that nefarious nincompoop began to scream for his mummy. So if you won't set me free, will you _at least_ get rid of the Hand?"

She watched Vandomar expectantly, and was pleased when he nodded his head in agreement.

"It shall be done, and with all due haste, Mistress. And now that we have finally come to an accord on that unpleasant matter, I shall now impart my news: you have a visitor."

A visitor? In this dreary place? Had the Steward finally decided to allow Floor-kindle access to his aunt?

Trying to conceal her excitement, she raised a mildly curious eyebrow. "Is that so? How delightful. And who may this visitor be?"

For his sake, it had better not be Mr Gandalf White, come to crow over her; because she wasn't averse to practicing her wandless magic skills on him. It would be interesting to see if she could defy all the odds and produce the world's first ever wandless _Avada Kedavra_. And what better subject to practice it on (in the absence of Denethor himself) than the recently promoted Gandalf?

"The visitor is a noble Man of great import, Mistress," supplied Vandomar, "recently arrived back to the City -"

Which ruled out Gandalf. _And_ Floor-kindle. In fact, it ruled out the entire population of Minas Tirith, whether she knew them or not.

"- I trust that you will treat him with the honour due his station?"

Vandomar eyed her warningly, and she clenched her jaw. The irritating man wasn't giving much away, was he?

"That entirely depends on whether he's honourable or not, wouldn't you say? _He who demands honour doth rarely deserve it. _Are you familiar with that expression? No? Well, never mind. _You_ may be happy to bend and scrape to any idiot with clout, but I prefer to reserve judgement on such matters for myself."

Vandomar looked distinctly unhappy.

"Oh, don't look so worried; if he's a decent sort of chap, I'll be happy to refrain from offending him. Will that satisfy you?"

The gaoler nodded. "If such is the measure of your respect, then I need not fear his reception. There is no nobler Man in all of Gondor, save the Steward himself."

Hmph. Not exactly a glowing recommendation, was it? She should know - she'd met his ghastly Steward …

Without further ado, Vandomar retired from her cell into the corridor. She heard a brief exchange of words before a second man stepped into the cell carrying a large cloth bag. The door closed behind him and a key turned, locking them both inside.

For a moment, there was silence (other than the Hand) as the two stared curiously at each other, sizing the other up. For her part, Augusta was pleasantly surprised to find a dark-haired man almost as tall as her honorary nephew standing before her. He wore a simple grey tunic and dark trousers, though the material of both was obviously very finely woven. Black boots reached up to his calves, and a black cloak with silver-embroidered trimming hung from his shoulders.

What a fine-looking fellow! How very dashing! And such intelligent grey eyes!

The man offered her a courtly bow and a flash of his (beautifully) even white teeth.

"Good day, Lady Longbottom. No doubt you are at a loss as to my identity, and the reason for my unexpected visit," he began with a smile. "Let me keep you in suspense no longer. I am Faramir - "

"Son of the Steward, captain of Gondor, swordsman and scholar supreme," finished Augusta who, despite the circumstances, was delighted to meet the man she'd heard so much about. True, what she'd heard had been mainly derogatory, but given that it was Denethor (his own father!) who had uttered the insults, that only made her think the better of her guest. In her personal experience, the Steward's opinion on people was seriously flawed (he'd seriously misjudged her, hadn't he?), so Faramir was bound to be a stellar chap!

Faramir looked puzzled. "Scholar supreme?"

"According to Mr White."

His frown deepened, and she elaborated.

"Tall chap. Long white hair and a dirty grey cloak. Likes to pass himself off as a wizard, if you can believe it."

He chuckled. "Ah, I see. _Mr White_. I must remember that. Indeed I know him as Mithrandir, but he is the same person, and he is the Wizard he claims himself to be. I have recently seen his magic firsthand."

When? Pinching pennies from the treasury? Slight of hand was hardly magic. Still, it wouldn't do to ruin the man's illusions. For all his apparent fondness for Gandalf, he seemed like a very affable fellow.

"And you, my Lady, are Augusta Longbottom: grandmother, scholar, five-times winner of Yorkshire's Most Glorious Garden competition, Senior Mugwump for the North West and Witch extraordinaire," stated Faramir with a slight twinkle in his grey orbs.

"Gracious! Haven't you been busy!" she declared, impressed by his quote of her (cheeky) declaration to Denethor during their last encounter. "You've been speaking to Mr White, I see."

Another dazzling smile. "I do not deny that I have indeed conversed with Mithrandir, though our discussion was but brief. But your words have come to me from a very source: Peregrin Took. He has memorised them by heart."

"Ah, the mini-Mug …, er hobbit. Yes, he seems like a pleasant little fellow, doesn't he? Pity I never had the chance to talk with him before I changed accommodations. I would have quite liked to get to know him better. Hobbits seem like a very cheery sort of people, and Merlin knows I could do with a little cheering up."

"I do not doubt for an instant, my Lady," returned Faramir with an unmistakable note of sympathy in his voice. Augusta waved him to the only free seat in the cell while she settled on the side of the stone-slab-and-straw-mattress that served as her bed.

Faramir laid his pack on the little shelf and turned the wooden chair around to face her before taking his seat. He indicated the pack with a nod of his raven head.

"In the spirit of goodwill, the Steward has agreed to see you furnished with some supplies to make your stay a little less uncomfortable," he began, surprising the elderly witch. "Within, you shall find such articles as a warm blanket from your sixth-circle residences; a change of robes, some small particulars favoured by all ladies to aid in your toilette. Your housekeeper, Mistress Írildë was kind enough to assemble the goods at your nephew's request. I believe she also included a few of Lord Herion's books, which she noticed you perusing in his library. Mayhap they will help you to while away the lonely hours until some sort of agreement can be reached with my father for your release."

As much as she was grateful for the blanket, clothing and toiletries, it was the mention of release which made Augusta's heart soar.

"I didn't imagine he would consider such a thing after our little … misunderstanding."

Her guest's eyebrows rose fractionally. "Misunderstanding? An interesting choice of words when the Steward believes you to be nothing short of duplicitous and deceptive."

Grey eyes studied her intently, and she felt a slight pressure on her mind, almost as if …

Heavens! Was he attempting _Legilimency_ on her? A _Muggle_?

Augusta was astonished. Not for the first time since her arrival in Minas Tirith did the elderly witch find herself wondering at the distinct oddity of its citizens and in the general atmosphere of the place. In fact, truth be told, it was not simply her archaic little cell with its straw mattress, and the old-fashioned chamber pot which passed as a loo that struck her as strange, nor even the city itself: it was New Zealand as a whole.

And all its (surprisingly varied) inhabitants ...

They seemed to her to have rejected all the modern conveniences, speech and bizarre fashions of ordinary Muggle society and, for some reason that was quite beyond her, embraced in its place a decidedly medieval lifestyle.

En masse.

_The entire country!_

It was very peculiar. An entire country living their lives as if they were in the middle of some macabre fairy-tale? Why on earth would they do that? And why hadn't she heard about it back in good old Blighty? Muggles or not, such mass rejection of every modern convenience would have piqued the interest of even wizarding society. Even the Daily Prophet was known to include the occasional event from the Muggle world. Why, last year they had reported on the impending divorce of Prince Charles and Princess Diana (she'd been devastated enough to consider disposing of her souvenir cups, but rejected the idea after stumbling across a surprisingly powerful love potion in Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes and posting it to Diana to tip into her almost-ex-spouse's tea. Charles might yet see the error of his ways and get rid of his horse-faced mistress)!

Perhaps reporters were not allowed into New Zealand anymore? Their cameras might infuriate the natives. Still, bizarre though the country's step back in time was, it did at least explain the lack of clean, running water; the over-abundance of shockingly tight trousers, and the scandalous shortage of flushing toilets.

But it did not explain Faramir's attempt to infiltrate her mind and read her thoughts.

A Muggle Legilimens!

_What the deuce was going on in New Zealand?_

She felt another gentle prod against her mind and automatically tightened her shields.

Dash it all! Why did he have to go and do that? And just when she thought he was a thoroughly decent fellow, too!

"You'll forgive me if I disagree with the Steward's opinion," she said coolly. "I am certain that he only has the best interests of his people at heart, but he is quite mistaken about me. I am a thoroughly respectable member of society -"

At least, of her _own_ society.

"- and mean no ill will against either Minas Tirith or its people - something he would know if he hadn't been so busy jumping to conclusions."

Her guest eyed her shrewdly. "You must understand that my father has an obligation to protect the City. If it is of any consolation, from what I have heard of you thus far, I do not truly believe that you mean Gondor ill. Yet you did not deny bewitching one of our guards into giving you information on our City's strategic defences. Were you a citizen of Minas Tirith, such an act would see you hanged for treason if it were suspected that you intended to pass this information on to our enemies."

"Treason?" she growled, glowering at him. "I'll have you know there's not a treasonous bone in my body! What's more, the only reason I gathered the information in the first place was so I would know how much help was required from me. So I could plan my own defence of the city when Sauron's malodorous miscreants decide to strike. And a jolly good thing I did too, given the number of troops available. Why, you won't last five seconds against Mordor's army with a mere four thousand men!"

She sniffed heavily and settled herself back onto her mattress. Faramir seemed unperturbed by her outburst. He casually crossed his legs and folded his hands in his lap before questioning her again.

"If it was your intent to offer Minas Tirith your assistance, I must ask why you did not see fit to reveal this to my father upon first meeting him?" He watched her carefully.

"Given the reputation of most wizards in Middle Earth, I thought it wiser not to; though obviously I'm _not_ a wizard myself. I am a witch - something which appears to be a novelty hereabouts. But witch or not, the Steward did not strike me as the sort of man amenable to the aid of a mere woman - and even if he had been, my assistance might easily have been misconstrued as nothing more than an attempt to influence him, or even usurp him, as most of my male counterparts in this part of the world seem wont to do."

"And you disapprove of such assistance."

It was a statement, not a question, uttered with a hint of a smile. She nodded.

"I disapprove of anyone who uses their powers to subvert the authority of the land -"

_Or tries to cling to what is not rightfully theirs_, she added silently, thinking of Denethor.

"- don't you?"

There was grimness in his eyes when he responded.

"Indeed I do. The Dark Lord Sauron has long since proved himself to be the most unscrupulous of Wizards, and now Mithrandir arrives with tidings of the faithlessness of Saruman. Woe would seem the fate of Gondor, with evil to the East and betrayal to the West. Greedy hearts and minds would press upon the beauty of this realm with fire and death, until all lay in ruins around them, and Gondor was no more than a spoil to be disposed of as the victor saw fit, and the corpses of the Free Peoples of the West naught more than carrion to be fed to their dreaded beasts. Dark would seem our days indeed. Yet even in darkness the faintest spark of light may bring hope, and it will burn all the brighter the deeper darkness falls around it."

"Well said," commented Augusta, impressed by his words. "Mr White was quite right about your scholarly abilities. You should have been a poet."

Faramir smiled. "Perhaps I would have been, had fate played me a different hand. But I thank you for the compliment, nonetheless." His grey eyes studied her blue ones carefully, but Augusta felt no more attempts to intrude on her thoughts. "When I spoke of lights," resumed the Steward's son, "I was referring to Mithrandir, among others. I have known him since I was a boy. He visited the City on occasion when times were less troubled and has striven ever to ensure that he is kept abreast of all which may threaten her."

Hah! Striven ever to pinch the crown jewels, more like - something he'd obviously not yet managed if he had to keep coming back. The cad!

Her guest didn't seem to share her opinion. There was a fond look in his eye when he spoke of the wizard. "Much time he spent with my brother and I when we were children, imparting some of his wisdom and many tales of lore that such young boys delight in. I admit that I was more interested in them than Boromir …"

He trailed off for a second, and she caught a look of suppressed grief on his face. It seemed that Gandalf had given the Steward and his remaining son news of Boromir's death after all.

"I am very sorry for your loss, young man," she said kindly. He looked up in surprise.

"You know of my brother, and of his death?"

"No, not quite. But when I first met your father he mentioned his fears for Boromir, and he suspected they might be confirmed by the arrival of Mr White. I see now that his suspicions were correct. You were close to your brother?"

"As close as brothers have ever been."

"Then you must feel his loss all the more keenly. You have my deepest sympathies."

Faramir nodded once. "I thank you for your kind words, though little would I have expected them from one presently interred under my father's orders."

"You are not your father," she replied evenly, "and even so, I'm not without sympathy for him, either. The loss of one's child is the most devastating of all sorrows."

"And do you speak from experience?" enquired her guest mildly.

"Something like that," said Augusta, deciding it was time to change the subject. She had no desire to open her heart about Frank to a stranger, regardless of how pleasant that stranger appeared to be. "But I don't think you really came here to have a cosy chat about families, did you, young man? In fact, if I were to guess, I would say that Mr White sent you to try and raise my low opinion of him. An impossible task, of course."

At that Faramir laughed wryly. "You are quite determined to think the worst of him, I see."

A complete understatement, but yes.

"My opinion of him isn't quite carved in stone -"

Yet.

"- and I _am_ open-minded enough to change it if he proves himself worthy -"

Which, in her opinion, was highly unlikely.

"- but from my little experience of the man so far, let's just say he has yet to enamour himself to me."

"I grieve to hear it, Lady Longbottom," said Faramir, looking genuinely upset. "Were you to know Mithrandir as I do, you would see him for the Defender of Light that he is. Indeed, from what your own ... _nephew ..._ told me when I encountered him after reporting to my father -"

The witch fought with a frown. She did not like the way he had said 'nephew'. Did he suspect the truth?

"- you seem to share a deal in common with him."

Augusta dismissed her suspicions for the present and snorted inelegantly. "Other than the length of our hair, you mean?"

And even then she had _hers_ trimmed regularly, which was more than she could say for Rapunzel the White.

Her guest's lips quirked. "Other than your tresses, yes. You are both Istari, you are both powerful, and - in the manner of some Wizards, and now Witches, I deem - you are both wont to meddle in the affairs of others, though never to their detriment. I have heard much of your intervention against the forces of Isengard as they strove to attack the Horse-lords at the Gap of Rohan. Théoden King will count himself deep in your debt when he hears of this."

Her eyebrows rose in surprise. Had _Floor-kindle_ told him that? What on earth had he done that for? Faramir was the Steward's son - what if he reported the news to his father?

He seemed to guess her thoughts. "You need not fear. I have my report from Mithrandir, who imparted your role to me in confidence. I will say naught to my father unless he asks me directly - and this he will not do, for there is much else to occupy his mind at present."

Gandalf again! Drat that wizard! Had _he_ been speaking to her nephew? She made a mental note to speak with Floor-kindle about it (if she ever saw him again) and turned her thoughts back to Faramir's initial observation.

"King Théoden has no reason to feel obligated to either me or my nephew. There is no debt to be in, deep or otherwise. It was both mine and Archibald's pleasure to scupper Saruman's plans, particularly when I can't recall the last time I met a bigger idiot than him, Mr White notwithstanding."

"Ah, but 'Mr White' is also concerned with the scuppering of evil plans, my Lady. Long has he toiled in the gathering of intelligence that would thwart such as Saruman. Ever strives he to aid us against the machinations of Mordor and the dreaded lord of that land. And what does he ask in return?"

Wouldn't be the crown jewels, by any chance?

"Naught. Like you, the only reward he looks for is to see evil fall; to know that all good peoples may live without fear and forever thrive in peace."

Hmph. Wasn't _quite_ the only reward she'd ask for - a knighthood for Neville would go down absolutely spiffingly. After she had disciplined him for leading her on the grandmother of all chases across New Zealand, of course. And getting her arrested (twice) …

Augusta sniffed. "If he's so desperate to have all good peoples live in peace, then why on earth did he go out of his way to have me thrown as far into the depths of your pretty city as he possibly could when I could be of help to you all?"

"I cannot answer that, my Lady. I have not spoken with Mithrandir long enough to determine his reasons, nor would he necessarily have told me, had I asked. Such is the way with Wizards. He was only able to relay to me a brief account of your presence within the City, and speak a little of your battle with Saruman's army, ere I met with my father. But I am of the opinion that he regrets the circumstances of your first mutual encounter."

Not as much as he _would_ regret it if she ever got of this blasted cell!

"And so, being the good fellow you are, you took it upon yourself to pay me a visit and see if you couldn't sway my opinion of him," surmised the elderly witch.

Her guest sighed. "In part. But I would also ask that you not think too unkindly of my father. I sense that you are a Witch of integrity, whatever reasons you may have had for not immediately divulging your identity to the Steward, Your nephew also thinks most highly of you, and there can be no denying the word of so great a lord among the Firstborn. He speaks of you with all the honour and love that kin ever hold for their own - much as I would speak to you now of Denethor son of Ecthelion. My father may seem to you a little harsh and unforgiving, but do not despise him for that -"

Harsh and unforgiving? Well, she certainly didn't despise him for _that_ - she despised him for being a sexist old misery guts with a Scrimgeour complex! And for confining her to a ten feet by twelve feet cell!

"- for he is a man of honour and worth who seeks only to protect our people from those who would enslave or destroy them. As Steward of Gondor, it is his duty to oversee the lands under his care until such time as the one who may lay rightful claim to the throne of Gondor arrives at last to relieve him of his charge. And it is not a charge my father takes lightly. Even now the Enemy is pressing at our gates - and now we find his spies walk among us, eager to aid in our destruction. Thus, when he learned of your efforts to … _gather intelligence _on our forces, he had little choice but to inter you. Surely you can understand his caution? A powerful Witch enters our city just as it stands at the brink of open war; she seeks to conceal the true nature of her errand by claiming that she visits only to admire the City itself, and he discovers later that she has been bewitching the Guards of the Citadel for information on our forces. Can you not see why he interred you? These are dangerous times for us all, my Lady. The Steward of Gondor would be remiss in his duty to his people - and to his future king - if he did not act with absolute authority at the merest hint of a threat."

Merest hint of a threat! Why, she was no threat! She wouldn't hurt a fly, let alone a Gondorian - though she would, admittedly, happily slaughter a few thousand orcs (and a couple of Malfoys) without batting an eyelid - which was been precisely what she had been _trying_ to do.

Still, when Faramir put it like that, Denethor's behaviour did seem a little less callous. Perhaps she shouldn't think too harshly of him.

Then again, he had called her an old slapper (more or less).

"Perhaps you have a point, young man," she conceded, pushing the memory of Denethor's insults to the side and concentrating on the fine young man before her. "But I really don't see why you feel the need to come down here to illuminate me on the matter. I am a prisoner, after all - unless my nephew is actually making headway with negotiations for my release and you are here to set me free?"

Faramir dashed her hope when he shook his raven-haired head. "Alas, but I must disappoint you. The Lord Archibald has indeed petitioned for it, but at present the Steward is too occupied with heralds bringing news from Lamedon and Lossarnach to give it much consideration."

The news did not sit well with Augusta.

Botheration! What the deuce was she supposed to do in here when the battle was surely going to be out there?

"May I ask why it is that you would come to the aid of a people not your own?" asked Faramir suddenly, leaning backward in his chair and folding his hands on his lap.

The abrupt change of topic threw the witch, though only slightly. "Why should it matter?"

His face remained impassive, but grey eyes held her blue ones fast. "If you proclaim yourself a friend of Gondor and seek to protect her lands in their time of need, it matters much to her people. They would wish to know to whom they are indebted, and why such a stranger - and a woman, no less - would place herself in danger on their behalf."

"Is that so? And did you ask Mr White the same question when you first met him, or am I the singular recipient of such courtesy?" queried Augusta with a tilt of her head.

"A curious reply," said Faramir smoothly. "'She who answers a question with a question invariably has something to hide' - are you familiar with the expression?"

"'He who asks a question too many invariably finds himself short of a tongue' - are you familiar with that expression?" retorted the witch, slightly irked by his shrewdness. Faramir suppressed a smile as she gazed at him with all of her Longbottom haughtiness (which was a lot). "You're a very suspicious lot, you Gondorians. Is it so impossible to believe that I have nothing but your best interests at heart?"

"That would depend entirely on your definition of our best interests, Lady Longbottom."

She huffed. Hadn't he already said he thought her a woman of integrity? Then why the renewed questions?

"It is in your best interests to dispose of that idiot neighbour of yours with all due haste so that you can continue to live your lives in peace, liberty and prosperity - something I would be delighted to help you with, if only your father would see sense and let me out. There. Does that satisfy?"

"Not entirely."

Oh for goodness' sakes!

"Well what would satisfy you?"

"The answer to a riddle, if you are able to supply it," returned the dashing captain.

Augusta blinked. A riddle?

"As long as it's not about anyone called Tom, I'll do my best," she said dryly.

He frowned in confusion, but when she did not elaborate, he smoothed his features.

"'Tis not of any person with such a name," he began. "It came to me in a dream not twelve days since -"

In a dream? Was actually asking her to decipher a riddle he'd had in a _dream_? Good heavens! She was a grandmother, not a Seer! Still, best to humour him. As uncomfortable as some of his questions were, he was still a very pleasant sort of chap (and the only company she'd had in two days). It would be a pity to chase him (and his rather excellent teeth) away by being churlish.

"I say 'it'," continued Faramir, unaware of her thoughts, "but there are in truth two such riddles, though after speaking with my father I may now partly guess at the meaning of the first:

Seek not for one who has wandered

For step that shall fall never more

Seek not for boat on the water

Bearing its treasure to shore

Past yonder mists lies the green sward

Where rises a circle of stone

There housed in red silken glory

Honour doth now dwell alone."

Faramir paused, and a tinge of sadness returned to his face.

"I believe now that this riddle speaks of my brother's grave, though I know not where that may be. Yet that is something I shall confirm with Mithrandir and his companion as soon as I am able," he said softly. His face cleared. "The other riddle I cannot begin to hazard a guess at:

One not lost shall soon be found

By two that one pursue

Then terror swift shall fall aground

That neither may undo

Beware of steel that soon will rise

To rent the lips of hate

For lo! beneath the dreaded guise

Lies faithful heart in wait."

He finished the recitation. "Have you any idea to whom or what this refers?"

Augusta shifted uncomfortably, slightly alarmed by the young captain's uncanny dream.

_One not lost shall soon be found? _That could only mean Neville, surely? Unless it was referring to Aragorn? Which would bring Faramir's renewed questioning into perspective, if he thought she knew anything about the future king. But surely Gandalf would have told him about the ranger?

Or maybe not. Faramir had said they hadn't had overmuch time to talk before he'd had to report to his father.

But it couldn't be Aragorn: Neville was the only person she knew for certain that more than one person was after, apart from herself, and that person was …

… Sauron!

Fear clutched at her heart. Neville was in danger!

"The riddle troubles you, I see," said Faramir. "Perhaps you can explain what it means?"

Augusta studied his noble features. If she related the existence of Neville to Faramir, it would lead to questions about her grandson's companions - and that would lead to Aragorn. If Faramir discovered his existence, who was to say he wouldn't run back upstairs and relate his findings to daddy. Not that she believed he would do it just to spite her - he seemed far too respectable for that. But he would be duty-bound as captain to report to his superior.

At least that would explain why Gandalf hadn't mentioned Aragorn to him. He obviously didn't want Denethor finding out about the ranger either. Which was just as well: if the Steward discovered she had lied to him about _Aragog_ … well, the only part of her that would ever see daylight again would be the bones they carried out in a sack!

It was a pity to have to withhold details from her guest really, because - despite the grilling he was giving her - Faramir seemed like a very trustworthy young man. A very decent young man, who'd brought her supplies from her temporary home when he could well have sent a servant. A _noble _man worthy of honour, who - despite the strained relationship he must surely have with Denethor - had come to beg her forgiveness for the actions of his ungrateful father_. _Whyever did the Steward not see his son's worth for himself?

Be that as it may, circumstance dictated that she say nothing about Neville or Aragorn. But one thing was certain: dream or not, her grandson was in terrible danger.

And by Merlin! if anything happened to him while she was stuck in this cell …

She schooled her features into a blank mask and shook her head. "I am afraid I can't explain what your dream means, although it doesn't sound like it was a particularly pleasant experience for you. Perhaps you should avoid cheese before bedtime - it can lead to dreadful nightmares. Take it from me, I know first hand; I once ate two entire wedges of _Celeste Homage's Puant Fromages_ before retiring for the night and then dreamt that I fell in love with an Alsatian. It was a very distressing experience, giving birth to twenty puppies, I can tell you."

For a moment, she thought Faramir might succumb to the laughter he was clearly fighting, but he suppressed his mirth admirably.

"You are certain you cannot elaborate any more upon the dream?" he enquired, trying to regain control of the conversation.

"Well," added Augusta, deliberately misunderstanding whose dream he was referring to, "I woke Mr Longbottom up in the middle of the night with all of my barking. You can imagine his astonishment when he found me scrabbling at the sheets, trying to make a nest for my newborns. Not that he knew what I was doing, of course. But I nearly bit his hand off when he tried to shake me awake. Does that help?"

The Gondorian searched her eyes, but Augusta kept her shields intact and stared him straight in the face.

"I see that you can relate naught else on the matter," he said. "Or that you _will_ relate naught else on it. As you wish. All Wizards - and now it seems Witches - will have their secrets. You will tell me all that you deem necessary when the time is right for it, of this I am certain. For my part, I hold no ill will toward you for your reluctance to impart your knowledge before such a time, for - even though your opinion of him is low - Mithrandir himself says that you are a woman of the highest moral fibre. You will speak when you must."

Augusta was slightly staggered. Gandalf had said _what _about her? How _dare_ he have such a high opinion of her, and _still _be willing to have her thrown in prison like a common criminal!

Faramir rose and smoothed down his tunic, "No more shall I trouble you with questions or riddles this day, my Lady. Yet ere I leave I shall extend to you my apologies for any mistreatment you may have suffered during your stay in Minas Tirith. You must believe me when I say that we are not a violent people, and even less the sort of people given to the abuse of women, whether they be Witch or nay. It was mere misfortune that delivered you into the hands of a traitor. But mark my words; Calathor the Deceiver and his foul companion shall both be punished for their part in your abduction, as well as for their treason to Gondor."

Augusta wondered if he was also apologising in part for his father's uncouth remarks about her on her arrival - or if he even knew of them.

"That's awfully kind of you," she said with a nod of acknowledgement. "Can you tell me when I am to be allowed to see my nephew? Or hazard a guess as to when I might be released?"

The grim shake of his head was expected, but her stomach fell none the less.

"I cannot. If my father has not the time to speak with your kin, then it may be that you find yourself interred still when the Enemy strikes."

"But that could very well be any minute now, if the Steward is to be believed!" huffed the irritated witch.

"He is indeed to be believed," said Faramir gravely. "Only three days since did my Men and I slay a regiment of Southrons who were proceeding boldly through our lands to join their dark Master in Mordor. Theirs was only one among countless regiments of Men, Orcs and other foul beasts assembled in the Black Lands, ready to destroy us. They may even now be marching towards Osgiliath, and if they find a way across, then my fair City and all her people may be lost. Yet even then we shall fight them with the last gasp of our breaths, for 'tis better to die in freedom than live in subjugation."

"Well it sounds to me like you need all the help you can get, young man - and the sooner the better. Therefore, I would like to officially offer my magical assistance to Gondor. Now, I understand that the Steward might be a little too busy to see my Archie, but surely he won't be too busy to see his own son? So might I ask you to relay my offer to him as soon as possible?"

The Steward's son smiled gently. "You are indeed all that your nephew claims you to be and more, Green Witch. Though you know us not, and have been treated less than kindly within these walls, still you would offer your aid to us."

"Poppycock. Not everyone has treated me unkindly; just that ridiculous vagabond next door, and his ghastly friend -"

_And your equally ghastly father. Not to mention Mr Gandalf White._

"- every barrel has a bad apple or two in it, but that doesn't mean we should dispose of the whole lot. And besides, you were getting my aid whether I vocalised the offer or not - no matter what the Steward thinks. How could I in all good conscience sit back and twiddle my thumbs while the hoards of Mordor blasted you all to smithereens?" She shuddered at the thought of such callousness.

"Istar or nay, it would grieve me to see aught befall you in battle, Lady," said Faramir with a touch of concern.

"I am more than able to take care of myself, young man," she retorted with an arch of her thin brow. "And if you don't believe me, why don't you nip up to the Gap of Rohan and ask the thousand or so orcs I helped to dispose of. If you find any still alive, that is."

He laughed. "I would have given much to see your ire visited upon the enemies of the West."

"You might still get the chance, if your father frees me."

He bowed. "I shall do what I may, Lady Augusta. But I cannot promise you liberty this very day. My father may require a little time to appreciate why you withheld your identity from him earlier. Only then may he understand that you meant no ill will to his people and thus order your release."

His father _required_ a kick in the …

"Then that shall have to do, for the moment. You'll forgive me if I don't show you to the door, won't you? We can't have that grim chap outside thinking I'm trying to make a dash for freedom."

Though she definitely would, if she thought she had any chance at success. Deuced arthritis!

"Nay, that we cannot have," agreed Faramir in amusement. He walked to the door and rapped three times on the wood. Keys clinked in the lock and the door swung open. The last son of the Steward indicated the pack he had brought her. "It may be some time ere I can send you news from the Citadel. Why not lessen the anxiety of the waiting hours with a book? I shall see that more are sent to you in the morning, if required."

More books? She'd much rather be free; but that could take time. Still, what a jolly nice fellow he was for the offer.

Augusta offered him a thin-lipped smile. "Thank you, young man. You are a credit to your parents."

Even if his father couldn't appreciate that fact.

Her words startled him at first, but then a warm smile curved his lips. "And you are a credit to your nephew, Green Witch."

With that, he bowed and left. Vandomar wore a distinctly smug expression as he closed the door behind him, though she didn't begrudge him it. He had been quite right: Faramir _was _a noble man worthy of honour.

Left alone in her cell once more, she dwelled for a few moments on her encounter with the Steward's son. He was more perceptive than his father, and had managed to unsettle her on more than one occasion, yet it was plain for all (but Denethor) to see that he was an admirable young man of courage and conviction. In a way, he reminded her of Frank, as he used to be, though infinitely more serious than her rather boisterous son was in his youth.

Thoughts of Frank made her think of Alice, which made her think of Neville and the danger he might be in.

She had to get out of here!

But that wasn't going to happen in the next five minutes so, reluctantly, Augusta decided to distract herself until such time as she could finally leave her poky little cell. Deciding to make use of the remaining light, she walked the few steps to the shelf and poured herself another glass of water. She drew back the flap on the pack Faramir had brought with him, to remove the items within, and was delighted to find that Mistress Írildë had indeed included a thick woollen blanket from her bedroom. There was also a lovely bar of rose-scented soap, shaped like a flower. A little silver comb she withdrew next, and some pins; a small phial of lavender scent. Írildë had also packed a nightgown and, to Augusta's delight, her own dress, coat and hat. She fingered Spot fondly and sat it down on the ledge (where it was in an ideal location to scare the daylights out of Vandomar when he next opened the door).

Finally, at the bottom of the pack, Augusta pulled out two expensively-bound volumes. One of them she could not recall seeing in Lord Herion's library; a slim book covered in red silk bearing the title _A Philologist's Guide to the Peoples of Middle Earth_.

Well _that_ ought to put her right to sleep. With a roll of her eyes, Augusta decided that she would save it until bedtime. As for the other volume, it was the red-and-gold embossed copy of _The Ancientry of the Eldar Children of Ilúvatar_.

Splendid. It seemed she had a choice between a terminally boring language manual and an only slightly more stimulating one on childcare. As for language, well, the whole world spoke English, or ought to. And where they didn't, she usually found that shouting it worked wonders. As for childcare …

Dash it all, why couldn't Írildë have sent her that copy of _Celestial Bodies and their Heavenly Arrangements_? True, it was rather large, but Faramir was a strapping fellow; he could have managed it without a struggle. And it had contained some rather stunning maps and drawings that she wouldn't have minded studying again! That would have kept her occupied until she could get out of this blasted place and take care of whatever miscreant it was that Faramir's dream foretold might harm her grandson.

Not for the first time did she wonder if there was a wizard or a Seer somewhere far back in Faramir's family tree. The man's astuteness was absolutely too uncanny, for a Muggle.

She surveyed her literary choices and finally selected the childcare manual. After all, she might find some expert advice within it that she could pass on to Denethor (who was the most miserable excuse for a father she had ever met - apart from Lucius Malfoy).

Grabbing her book, she sat down on the chair which her handsome guest had so recently vacated, took a cool sip of water, and turned the red-and-gold cover to the first page of her 'childcare' manual …

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Author's Note_: I had most of this chapter written weeks ago, but every time I came back to edit it, I found myself frowning at it in disgust. I chopped it, changed it, shuffled it about, but it just wasn't working. In the end I scrapped it completely and started again. It still isn't quite what I envisioned, but it'll have to do, because you've been waiting long enough.

Another thing which caused the delay was the arrival of one of the most pathetic flames I have ever received. It pissed me off so much (pardon the language), that every time I started the rewrite, it would flash before my eyes and make me too angry to continue. Now I know that critique is part of an author's life, and I'm happy to get it when it's sent with the intent to be truly constructive. But when some visionless t**t who hasn't even had the nerve to write something of her/his own sends me obnoxious, derogatory, narrow-minded and downright patronising criticism with the sole intent of being offensive - and without one bit of concrit included - it really cheeses me off. Still, cheesing me off was all it did. If it was her/his intent to discourage me, then they'll need to try harder. As they've written no stories of their own, I can only assume the flamer in question is actually jealous of someone who can write (whether it's to everyone's taste or not), and so I will continue on as before while they dwell in talentless misery.

Forgive the rant ...

As for this chapter. It had to be broken up because I'll need to plan the other half of it properly before I write it. But I promise you, you will not have to wait so long for the next chapter. I'll try to have it up within a fortnight.

Kara's Aunty :)


	33. Revelations & Reconciliations

**Disclaimer:**Lord of the Rings is owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. I have written this for my own enjoyment.

**Credit:** www dot Tuckborough dot com and en dot wikipaedia dot org/wiki

Reviews appreciated!

**Chapter 33**

* * *

_Minas Tirith_

_Third Age 9th-11th __March 3019_

After Glorfindel bid Augusta farewell at the gloomy oak door leading to the city dungeons (she had instructed him to stop frowning as it made him look like an angry Veela - whatever that was) he made his way back to their lavish residence feeling completely at a loss to explain Gandalf's actions. Ire fuelled his steps up the long dark staircase leading from the dungeons to the sixth level, so that by the time he exited, he was feeling enormously peeved.

It was bad enough, he thought, that Denethor had unjustly incarcerated the Green Witch, but that Mithrandir sanctioned it? Worse still, that the wizard had suggested the Steward lock her away from all sight?

The elf clenched his fists angrily, thankful that the wizard was not standing in front of him (in case he was unable to resist the urge to plant them in Gandalf's face) as he barged through the alcove and out on to the sixth circle. Yet it seemed that fate was ripe for a bit of immortal fisticuffs, for as he stepped out into the breaking dawn, he almost collided with the White Wizard himself.

"Ah, Glorfindel. Just the person I was hoping to see ere long," he began, stepping aside with Pippin to allow the elf room. The guard who accompanied them came to a halt a few feet ahead and waited patiently for his charges to greet their friend. "I have just finished speaking with the Steward …"

"Indeed?" said Glorfindel coolly, cutting the wizard off abruptly. "Have you come to inform me that I too must dwell in alternate accommodations? Perhaps you have found some inexplicable reason to have me as unjustly interred as the Lady Augusta presently is?"

Gandalf held up his hands in a placatory manner. "I have done no such thing. You are no threat to Middle Earth …"

Blond eyebrows shot up in disbelief. "Threat?" he exclaimed, taking a dangerous step forward. Pippin swallowed hard, but the White Wizard was made of sterner stuff (which suddenly annoyed the elf no end). "You claim my aunt to be a threat? You disappoint me, Mithrandir. She is no more threat to the West than a mother to her babe!"

Pippin's eyes swung nervously between wizard and elf, clearly hoping they wouldn't cone to blows (and having no idea how to separate them if they did - if he even _dared_ to separate them).

"I speak not of mothers and babes, Lord of Gondolin; but of a witch whose very presence may threaten all for which we fight."

"Really?" asked Pippin in great surprise, temporarily forgetting his unease in seeing his friends at loggerheads. The two immortals ignored him.

"And of what threat do you speak, Mithrandir?" demanded Glorfindel. "That we are in danger of her aid from our Enemy? That we are in peril of being in her debt if we prevail? Or that as payment for her assistance she may foist the dubious delights of Earl Grey upon an entire world?"

Pippin's brow shot up. "Foist Earl who? Is that a person or a disease?"

Gandalf clamped a gnarled hand across the inquisitive hobbit's mouth. "This is neither the time nor the place to have this discussion, Glorfindel. I know that you are both angry and confused, but we have been friends for many years, you and I. There was a time not very long ago when you trusted me implicitly: I ask you to bear that in mind and trust me now. I cannot elaborate any further at present other than to say this: Mrs Longbottom is as yet ignorant of the danger she presents, but she presents it nonetheless, and so I have acted in the way which seems best to me to curtail this danger."

"By having her confined to the dungeons with the very Men who abducted her?" growled the very miffed elf lord. "I know not what danger you perceive the lady to be, but you err. The Green Witch is an honourable woman who has fought the forces of evil ever since I have known her - and even before then. Without even knowing us, she flew to the aid of Imladris; and then later Rohan. This she did of her own free will because she is noble and just. I tell you this now, Mithrandir: my aunt is the very last person who would ever seek to bring danger upon us!"

"You are allowing your feelings for her to influence you, Glorfindel. You are not with the Steward of Gondor now yet still you refer to the lady as 'aunt'!" Glorfindel flushed angrily at that and, sensing an objection, Gandalf spoke again before the elf could voice it. "But come! I have not said that the lady _herself _is the danger; already I have heard of her feats on our behalf since she arrived in Middle Earth, and welcome they were to the ears of this weary Wizard! I mean only that she may be the unwitting _cause_ of danger. That is why I spoke as I did. You would not have all we have fought for undone by one moment of carelessness?"

Suppressing the desire to lash out (in case he missed the wizard and smacked his young hobbit friend instead), Glorfindel clasped his hands firmly behind his back and straightened himself imperiously.

"Naught that my aunt has done yet has been careless, Mithrandir; you do her a disservice by claiming otherwise. And yes, I call her 'aunt' - a necessity at first -"

A necessity the lady herself imagined, it was true, but the wizard had no need to know that Augusta Longbottom had wished to dispel any wild notions among the Gondorians that elf and witch were some sort of present-day Beren and (outrageously wrinkly) Luthien ...

"- but now I do so because I claim her as kin of my choosing, and you would do well to make peace with that."

"Very well," conceded Gandalf with a sigh. "'Aunt' it is." He threw a look at the guard, who was watching them closely. "It is best that Pippin and I depart for the moment ere our curious friend yonder learns from our conversation of matters that do not yet concern him. But I shall seek you out soon and then we may discuss the matter of your companion at such leisure as may be allowed amidst the planning of war. Until then, old friend."

With a nod of his snowy white head, and a gruff 'Come, Peregrin Took!', the ancient Istar turned on his heel and departed. Glorfindel watched him leave with a very un-elvish frown on his face.

"Glorfindel?" said Pippin pensively. Glorfindel tore his gaze from Gandalf's back to stare at the hobbit instead. Pippin wore an unusually grave expression, one which seemed unnatural in the usually ebullient youth.

"Goheno nin, Pippin. I did not mean for you to witness such unpleasantness," he said with real regret. The hobbit offered a small smile.

"That's okay. Merry and I argue too, you know, but we're still friends. Ale and pipeweed go a long way in smoothing out differences of opinion - in fact I have some pipeweed here if you'd like."

Glorfindel bit back a smile and shook his head when Pippin reached into his weskit and pulled out a small leather pouch to offer him.

"Oh, that's right; elves don't smoke. Never mind. All the more for me." The pouch was swallowed up by Pippin's pocket once more. "Anyway, having your aunt thrown into prison can't have been pleasant to witness, so I understand why you're angry. Still, at least she's only imprisoned and not, you know -"

The hobbit lowered his voice. "- _dead_."

The elf blinked stupidly. That was hardly a consolation.

"I only wish I knew why it was necessary to have her out of the way, as it were," finished the youth.

His comment surprised the elf.

"Mithrandir has not told you?"

Pippin's curly head shook from side to side. "No. I didn't even know Mrs Longbottom existed until I met her in the Hall of Kings."

How typical of the White Wizard! Ever he held his secrets close to his chest.

"But if I find out before you do, I can let you know."

The offer warmed him, but Glorfindel declined. "I thank you, Master Took, but it would be best if Mithrandir explained his reasons to me in person. He will seek me out soon enough, and then I shall know what I must."

And be better armed to act upon the intelligence: for as much as Glorfindel (usually) trusted the wizard's counsel, if he thought for one second that the Green Witch was being incarcerated unfairly, then nothing the Istar said would prevent him from marching back down to the dungeons and slaying any who sought to prevent him from liberating her!

Well, perhaps not _slaying_. But at least rendering them (and Mithrandir) so senseless that they would not awaken until well into the next Age.

"Peregrin Took!"

Gandalf's gruff summons made the hobbit jump, and with a final weak smile, Pippin dashed away, leaving Glorfindel standing alone on the street.

Having no further desire to return home for the present (where, he suddenly realised, he would be alone, and therefore at the mercy of his rampantly amorous housekeeper), the stately elf turned right and headed towards the gate that would lead him on a long walk to the lower levels.

He would need the time to mentally prepare himself for Gandalf's upcoming visit …

**XXX**

Much to Glorfindel's mounting irritation, Gandalf did not seek him out as soon as he would have wished. As the days passed, a darkness began to creep from the East towards the White City: thick, roiling clouds which swept from Mordor to cover the skies above Minas Tirith, and the sight of them struck dread and fear into its remaining inhabitants. Both wizard and elf each had their hands full; Gandalf in his counsels with the Steward, and Glorfindel inspecting the weaponry of the soldiers. Indeed, it was not until the day after Augusta's banishment that the elf even caught sight of him again, and then only briefly that morning as he rode out to aid the youngest son of the Steward who was fleeing an assault from the remaining Nazgûl.

Glorfindel had been on the lower level with Beregond at the time, and about to take some of the archers through their paces, when the call came. Abandoning the lesson, he rushed to the fore of the gathering crowd and, upon seeing the danger to Faramir and his men, had dashed from the Great Gate onto the Pelennor himself to give what aid he could. The glory of his elven heritage had been visible for (almost) all to see (Augusta was still languishing in the city dungeons) as his glowing light shone through the growing gloom and assisted the wizard's magic in fending Sauron's deadly lieutenants away from Faramir and his men. But the Istar had not stopped to chat on his return with Faramir; instead they had raced up to the Citadel together and ensconced themselves with Denethor.

Unused to being excluded from the strategic planning of warfare, and forbidden so much as a visit to Augusta, the mighty warrior elf had to content himself with rallying the troops and overseeing the evacuation of all civilians to the higher levels of the city, where they would be safest if Sauron's army breached the Great Gate. Several of these, mainly elderly men, looked at him askance when he ordered them to pack only what they could comfortably carry and move out of their homes.

"But none have ever breached the Great Gate before!" exclaimed one old man, clutching the tiniest (and loudest) dog the elf had ever seen (he had thought it at first to be a giant rat) and refusing to budge from his rickety rocking chair. "'Tis indestructible!"

"'Tis only indestructible because it has not thus far met with sufficient force to tear it asunder," grumbled Glorfindel in exasperation. But the old man refused to harken to him, and so he was left with no other option than to order two of the Guards of the Lower Circle to pick him (and his scary little dog) up, chair and all, and carry him bodily out of the home he had lived in for fifty years.

Yet even as all the preparation was underfoot, and even though his presence gave some reassurance to those readying for battle, none could long ignore the blackness hanging above them like a giant shroud waiting to fall …

But not all hope was lost: ever and again opened the main gate to admit knights and princes, and with them came those men that could be spared in defence of the city: Furlong the Fat, Lord of Lossarnach, clad in mail and carried through the Great Gate by a thick-limbed horse. Behind him followed a dusty line of swarthy, well-armed men wielding great battle-axes. Dervorin of Ringlo Vale there came too with a paltry three hundred men. Duinhir of the Blackroot Vale arrived with his twin sons Duilin and Derufin and five hundred bowmen. Also came men from other regions such as Lamedon, Ethir and Pinnath; but never in numbers exceeding three hundred, so that people soon began to wonder if they would ever be able to withstand even the initial assault of Mordor's enormous forces.

The arrival of Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, leading a contingent of seven hundred tall men who sang as they passed the Great Gate was enough to lift their spirits for a time, but even then they soon flagged when it became clear that Minas Tirith had amassed a force of less than six thousand men, a wizard, an elf and one small hobbit with which to defeat the Dark Lord's overwhelming army of orcs, Nazgûl and Elbereth only knew what other manner of dark creatures.

Only a handful of the city's inhabitants were aware of the powerful witch languishing in the city dungeons who would have happily rushed to the aid of Minas Tirith (if only someone would set her free), yet none of them were wont to do so.

Apart from Glorfindel. On the third day of Augusta's imprisonment, the elf found himself gazing out of the study window in his sixth-circle residence, a frown on his fair face as he studied the darkness hanging over the city.

It worried him more now than he cared to admit, for there was no greater sign that a major attack from the East was imminent than the evil foulness that lingered patiently overhead, awaiting the arrival of Sauron's army. Glorfindel could smell the threat of a fight in the air, and it agitated him not to be part of the planning.

Why had Gandalf not yet sought him out? Or at least convinced Denethor to make use of his experience? Surely the Steward realised that the fate of Gondor was now close at hand? On his return two days since, Faramir had given report that the Dark Lord's army was marching towards the eastern shore of Osgiliath, stating that it would be a matter of days before they arrived and began to attempt the crossing.

And those days were almost spent ...

Elbereth! What a time to lose an ally of Augusta's calibre. What in the name of the Valar had Denethor been thinking to succumb to his pride and incarcerate her? And Mithrandir! Why had he insisted that she be hidden in some dark corner of the city with no hope of release?

He drew the heavy curtains together with more force than was necessary and spun away from the window. Long strides carried him swiftly to the desk, and he took a seat in Lord Hirion's comfortable chair while his thoughts dwelled on Gandalf.

Over the last few days, he had oft pondered Mithrandir's mysterious claim that the Green Witch might endanger the West, though he simply could not fathom what sort of danger the wizard imagined Glorfindel's colourful companion to be. The lordly elf has sensed naught but honour in her, and witnessed nothing less than a desire to be reunited with her kin at the earliest opportunity (and to fell as many orcs in that pursuit as she possibly could - which was a lot). Why on Arda would Mithrandir think her a threat to the West? Surely he could not believe her to be a spy? A traitor? A secret ally of Mordor?

The idea was so ludicrous, he almost laughed.

Then perhaps the danger lay with her grandson? But in what way? And how could it affect her, and thus the West, if the youth was not even in Minas Tirith?

Glorfindel sighed heavily. It was a puzzle indeed, and one he was tiring of. Slapping his hands on the desk, the elf made a decision.

If Mithrandir would not seek him out, then perhaps it was time for Glorfindel to do some seeking of his own?

Just as he was about to rise, a knock on the door heralded the arrival of the housekeeper. Glorfindel sank back into the chair with a sigh as she swung the door open and curtseyed prettily.

"My Lord, you have guests. Strangers from beyond the City - I believe they are known to you: Mithrandir the Wizard, and a Halfling. A Halfling in Minas Tirith! I have escorted them into the front reception, for I did not believe you would object to their visit. They await the pleasure of your company. The very _great_ pleasure of your company."

Thank the Valar! It seemed the Istar had finally decided to pay him a call. And not before time; had Mithrandir waited much longer, he may well have had to line up behind the thousand or so orcs eager to sever the elf's head from his neck!

He glanced briefly at the pretty housekeeper as she watched him expectantly. Her tone had not been without a tinge of suggestion, yet since the arrest of his companion, Mistress Írildë had tempered her amorous attentions toward him somewhat, being far too shocked at the thought of having had an actual witch living under her master's roof to realise she now had the object of her affections entirely to herself. Luckily, she had not been displeased by the notion of a witchly guest, but she had been scandalised that the witch in question was now no more than a common prisoner of the city.

"She seemed like such a gentlewoman!" the housekeeper had exclaimed upon learning of Augusta's arrest. "'Tis most unfortunate that she incurred the wrath of the lord Steward, for if she is as powerful as rumour has it, she may well have aided us in our hour of need!"

This declaration had altered the elf's rather unforgiving opinion on the normally lascivious lady. Yet he was still careful not to encourage the young widow (lest she redoubled her efforts to procure from him the daughter she so yearned after).

"I thank you, Mistress Írildë," he said, rising with a nod. He followed her from the study, allowing her to escort him to the reception room. Before entering, he paused to address her once more. "I must also express my gratitude to you for gathering personal items for my aunt's perusal during her, erm, stay in the lower accommodations of the City."

The housekeeper blushed becomingly. "Your gratitude is welcome, though not required. It was on the Steward's orders, though I was glad to receive the charge. I have taken a liking to your charming aunt, and it was little work to gather accoutrements for her. I added also one or two books from Lord Hirion's study - for I noticed that Lady Longbottom admired them so when she arrived."

Glorfindel was temporarily stunned. How in Arda could she have noticed _that_ when she had spent the better part of fifteen minutes trying to beget a daughter with him?

"Once again, I thank you," he said upon recovering. "Your attention to detail is most impressive."

Most impressive.

"Would you kindly see that refreshments are served to my guests at the earliest opportunity? And pray make certain that you include a large plate of bread and meat, and as many pastries as you may carry without doing yourself an injury. Hobbits - or Halflings as you call them - have rather extraordinary appetites."

Leaving her no opportunity respond, he nodded a dismissal and she curtseyed before departing. Glorfindel laid a hand on the doorknob, steeling himself for the coming meeting.

It irked him no end that Gandalf had taken so long to seek him out. No doubt the wizard had been busy in his counsels with the Denethor, and the matter of one errant witch was of little import to him (now that he had her exactly where he wanted her), but it _was_ of import to Glorfindel. And Glorfindel was less than pleased to have been kept waiting so long for an explanation that would only have cost Gandalf five minutes less time with the Steward.

The Steward.

He grimaced. Several times he had petitioned Denethor to free the Green Witch - or even to allow him to visit her - but Denethor had refused.

"_Mistress Longbottom will serve this City better from the safety of the dungeons, lord Elf," _the Steward had announced. _"There is naught to be gained and much to lose by allowing her the freedom she has so recently abused. I will say no more on the matter!"_

Even now, two days later, the blunt refusal to accommodate his wishes still stung; but he dismissed his ire for the present and focussed instead on keeping his temper in check during the upcoming talk with his old friend. Taking a final calming breath, he opened the door and stepped into the airy reception room.

Gandalf stood by the fireplace gazing absently into the grating. He turned at the sound of the door opening and offered Glorfindel a nod in greeting, which the elf returned, if a little coolly.

"Hullo, Glorfindel!"

At least Pippin's greeting did not lack enthusiasm: the youth replaced the bronze figurine he had been studying and rushed to greet him.

"I thought you had disappeared. Or thrown yourself from the wall or something. It seems that long since I've seen you. Well, I have seen you from a distance, but I was rather busy and couldn't stop to chat. You don't mind, do you?"

"Nay, I do not," he assured the hobbit with an understanding smile. He shot a glance at the fireplace. "And take comfort in the fact that I would never willingly throw myself from a wall, young Master Took; though I might happily have thrown another."

The low remark was not lost on the wizard (who paled), though Pippin missed it completely.

"A good thing too," said the hobbit with a fetching grin. "You would have made a terrible mess of the lower levels. A terribly _elvish_ mess, and therefore rather elegant, I'm sure; but still terrible."

From the corner of his eye, Glorfindel could see the wizard shaking his head in exasperation.

"An elegant mess, you say?" he asked, fighting to hide a smile. Only a hobbit could have hoped to elicit a spark of humour in his troubled heart.

Well, a hobbit or his aunt; but as she was currently languishing in the darkest recesses of Minas Tirith, a hobbit would have to suffice.

And suffice he did. Admirably.

"Very elegant," affirmed Pippin with a nod. Gandalf sighed audibly, irking the elf no end.

"You disagree with my young friend?" he enquired, turning to the wizard and cocking a golden eyebrow. Gandalf grumbled something under his breath before speaking aloud.

"I am certain that you would make the most elegant of messes," he conceded, staring back with hooded eyes. "Though why you would wish to be one in the first place is quite beyond me."

"I do not recall claiming that I wished to be any sort of a mess, though I believe that an elegant one is as good as any, and considerably better than most," retorted Glorfindel (rather cattily).

The hobbit threw Gandalf a sidelong glance before leaning forward to whisper, "I've tried to talk him into freeing Mrs Longbottom for you, but every time I bring the subject up, I am mysteriously called to do some duty or other for my lord Steward. I'm a knight of Gondor now, see?" he thrust his chest forward for Glorfindel to admire the black hauberk and black-and-silver tunic (which the elf duly did), "so I have to attend him when he calls. Which he does, of course. And surprisingly often. Most particularly when I'm just about to ask Gandalf why he helped to throw Neville's grandmother in the City dungeons. Wizard's magic at work, I suspect. But I haven't asked the Steward to free Mrs Longbottom, I'm afraid. He's a bit -"

Pippin faltered, searching for the right word.

"He's a bit _intense_, you see. Must be all that Númenorean blood Gandalf was telling me about earlier. I think Númenoreans must have been rather a scary bunch myself; all those deep grey eyes and big foreheads wrinkled in thought while they pondered the merits of milk versus lemon in their tea, or whatever such great people think of when they're frowning at the dinner table. Denethor did a lot of that yesterday. I was there, and so was Gandalf. And Faramir. Have you met him? He's …"

"That will be enough gossip to be getting on with, Peregrin Took!" grumbled Gandalf affectionately. "You shall make our kind host quite dizzy with your relentless chattering. Now sit down and be silent, that I may at least answer one of your charges against me, impudent Took that you are."

"And which charge would that be, Mithrandir?" enquired Glorfindel coolly, guiding the hobbit to a settle and seeing him seated. The elf took an armchair nearest the fire. "The charge that you aided in the immoral incarceration of the Green Witch for reasons which you have tarried in sharing with me? Or that you consistently manage to contrive some distraction or other whenever Pippin wishes to plead for her release?"

The wizard sighed. "I see you are still vexed with me, and not without cause. I regret the delay in my visit, but I have not been idle. Yet I ought to have sent word to you sooner, and for that I am sorry."

Vexed? An understatement, but as Glorfindel had already determined it would not be in Middle Earth's best interests to tear the White Wizard limb from limb (yet), he did not reply directly to the wizard's observation.

"Apologies are unnecessary, though explanations are always welcome. I am merely curious to know why you find my aunt so dangerous."

He watched as Gandalf ran a hand across his brow and, for the first time since he arrived in Minas Tirith, Glorfindel noted how very fatigued he looked. A pang of sympathy swelled in his heart.

"Sit, Mithrandir," he ordered in a more mellow tone (but not too mellow - the wizard was not off the hook that easily), "You may explain your reasons as well in comfort as nay."

Gandalf's eyebrows rose in surprise, but he did as he was bid, sinking gratefully into the armchair opposite the elf.

"Thank you, old friend," said the wizard, resting his arms on the carved wooden rests. "I admit that I am a little fatigued. I have journeyed long and hard this past week, and the time before was … trying … also."

"I do not doubt it. Sparring with Morgoth's serpents does tend to overtax one," quipped Glorfindel wryly.

To put it lightly. It struck the elf then that he and the wizard were the only two people alive to have fought Melkor's ghastly creations, die at their moments of victory, and return to life by the grace of the Valar.

"Do you mean the Balrogs?" enquired Pippin with a shiver.

"Speak not that name!" growled Gandalf, making the hobbit flinch. "Forgive me, Peregrin Took. The memory of Morgoth's spawn is ever enough to stir my ire. Know that I am not angry with you."

"That's all right, Gandalf," replied Pippin with a sheepish smile. "I didn't mean to upset you. It's just that my memories of it aren't very pleasant either. I was so scared for you in Moria when … well, you know. But at least you managed to kill it! Of course, it did sort of kill you, too; but you came back. So did you Glorfindel, and that's more than I can say for the Bal … er, Morgoth's unlucky spawn. 'Deader than the Bullroarer' or so Bilbo would say. Or 'curly-toed and breathless', which is how my sister Pearl described Cousin Lalia when she fell out of her wheelchair and down the steps to her death. Some say she was pushed, but Pearl has always denied it."

Elf and wizard stared at the hobbit in collective astonishment. Pippin flushed.

"It's a good thing you each had more than one life to spare, even if you didn't know it the time," he rambled on nervously, aware that he might have compromised his absent sister's reputation, and desperately trying to repair the damage to it (or at least distract his friends from it). "You're both sort of like cats that way, except cats have nine lives. And four legs. You only have two each. Then again, together that's four, so maybe there's something in that. Of course, cats have tails, and I haven't seen anything remotely resembling a tail springing from the back of your breeches …"

"That will be quite enough, Fool of a Took!" thundered Gandalf, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. Glorfindel stared at the crimson-faced hobbit in amazement before throwing his head back and laughing merrily.

"Ai, Mithrandir," he gasped minutes later. "Do not be so harsh on young Peregrin, for he has lightened my mood considerably - an impressive feat given the current climate."

Pippin brightened immediately, then brightened further still when Mistress Írildë arrived with an enormous tray of tea, rolls, cold meats, butter and cakes for the noble company. She spared the elf no more than a brief glance of longing before departing, impressing Glorfindel further with her powers of self-control. Pippin batted his host's hands away from the tray and poured cups of elderflower tea for all three, which he handed to Glorfindel and Gandalf in kind before occupying himself in the making of a little snack.

Gandalf spared the hobbit a fond glance. "Now that our young friend has busied his mouth with the biggest filled roll ever to exist in Arda -" Pippin grinned "- I will use the opportunity of his blissful silence to explain to you both why I acted as I did when he and I arrived in the Hall of Kings."

Glorfindel settled back in his chair and sipped at his aromatic beverage, waiting for the answer to a question which had occupied him for three days.

"No doubt you were surprised at my suggestion that Denethor inter your … aunt … in accommodations other than this charming house."

"You suggested that she was a threat to Gondor, which led the Steward to confine her to the City dungeons," said Glorfindel curtly. "Yet I know from observing your conduct with her before and after this outrageous claim that you do not entirely believe your own words. So the question remains as to why you acted as you did?"

He watched the wizard carefully, and Gandalf met his gaze unflinchingly.

"I apologise for the hurt this may have caused you, Glorfindel," said Gandalf sincerely, "but it was the only option available at the time to prevent a catastrophe in the near future."

"Catastrophe?" enquired Pippin, swallowing a huge bite of his roll, and almost choking with the effort. The hobbit's eyes watered, and he took a healthy draught of tea to aid his roll's short journey to his stomach. "What catastrophe?"

"A good question," added Glorfindel. "You have alluded to danger, and now catastrophe. Of what do you speak?"

"Of the fall of Middle Earth, if the Green Witch finds her grandson before the fate of Sauron is decided."

The elf was completely floored. That had been the last thing he had expected to hear. Even Pippin had stopped chewing long enough to gaze at the wizard in open-mouthed surprise (giving any who cared to look a very unappetising view of a half-masticated pork roll). Elf and hobbit listened carefully as Gandalf related his vision from Lothlórien, and told of his frantic journey north to Imladris to ensure she remained there; he expressed his dismay upon finding the lady had already departed with Glorfindel in tow, and spoke of the long ride from Elrond's lands to Minas Tirith, via Isengard. Only after half an hour of thorough explanation did the White Wizard finally relent and allow his companions to digest what he had told them.

Glorfindel was stunned. He had fleetingly speculated that Neville must somehow be involved, but that a reunion between the Green Witch and her grandson could prove so fatal to Middle Earth would never have entered his wildest imaginings. He was tempted to ask Mithrandir if he was entirely certain of what he had witnessed in Galadriel's Mirror, but refrained. The Istar was no fool: if he said he saw a danger in Augusta Longbottom's reunion with young Neville, then that is exactly what he saw. But that the witch and her wizardly kin could prove so pivotal to the fate of Arda? It was astonishing!

Not that he doubted Augusta's power to affect the course of the war - she had more than proved her ability to rattle the enemy. But that the reunion she had worked so hard to see realised could put all Middle-Earth in such danger …

His fair face fell. She would be devastated. To know that all her endeavours to seek out her kin must now be abandoned until the fate of the world had been decided; that she must now abide with patience until Neville came to her at the war's end - if it even ended in their favour.

"I don't understand, Gandalf," said Pippin, pulling the elf from his thoughts.

"I thought I made myself perfectly clear," remarked the wizard, helping himself to a soft sponge cake. "If Mrs Longbottom meets her Neville before Frodo destroys his burden, then all our efforts to thwart Sauron may have been for naught."

Pippin sighed in something akin to exasperation. "I understood _that _part," he muttered absently, taking a generous bite of apple cake. Gandalf narrowed his eyes, but the hobbit was too busy voicing his thoughts (and stuffing his face) to take notice. "What I don't understand is why you didn't just tell her that. It would've saved her being thrown into prison, at least."

"I did not tell her because I _could_ not tell her, Peregrin Took! Not when she was standing mere feet before the Steward of Gondor himself! Or would you have me reveal to Denethor that even now her grandson - a Wizard - is accompanying the very person who will take his seat of power from him if Sauron falls? And furthermore, that Aragorn is accompanied not only by a young Wizard, but also by another Witch? Has it not occurred to you that he would interpret this as a threat to his authority? That he, in his arrogance, might believe that Aragorn had allied himself with two powerful Istari to rid himself of more than just the threat of Mordor? Particularly if he suspected Denethor might deny his claim to the throne of Gondor!"

The wizard's rebuke effectively silenced the hobbit, but it had the opposite effect on Glorfindel, whose cup had stilled in its motion to his lips.

"_Another _Witch, did you say?" he asked incredulously, hardly daring to believe his very pointy ears.

Before Gandalf had a chance to answer, Pippin broke into a huge smile. "What, you don't know about the Lady Molly?"

The elf shook his head, and Pippin launched into a detailed monologue of Neville's Guardian.

"Well, Molly really likes to cook, which is excellent, because I like to eat, so that works out very well," he announced happily. "She has bushy red hair and big brown eyes, and she looks just like a really tall hobbit-wife. She talks funny, but nice-funny. I like it. And she washes dishes with her magic wand, which you would call -"

"A staff?" offered Glorfindel.

Pippin beamed. "Exactly! And she can make soup flow from it, and boats float in the air. She made us something called Yorkshire puddings when we were still in Lothlórien - which aren't a pudding at all, actually. They're more of a savoury accompaniment to beef, but really, really delicious. Aren't they Gandalf?"

The hobbit turned to Gandalf for confirmation and turned back to Glorfindel before the wizard could give it.

"Axes can't kill her, and neither can Orcs. I know, because they tried to when we escaped from them at Fangorn. But she made them go all stiff and motionless, and then blasted them to pieces with her wand!"

Glorfindel's golden eyebrows arched in speechless surprise.

"Not only that, but she made leeks grow from their ears. Can you imagine?"

No, Glorfindel could not. And now that the hobbit had imparted that particular titbit, he may very well never look at a leek again in his very long life.

"They looked very tasty too, apart from the fact that they were attached to orcs."

It was now definite: the elf would _never_ touch a leek again.

"And she fought with Saruman when he tried to kill Neville. Gave him a huge pair of antlers, or so Neville said. I didn't see that part, because Merry and I were still in Fangorn with Treebeard. But Neville said they were really huge. Of course, by the time Merry and I got to Isengard, he'd managed to get rid of them. And I imagine the Burning Serpent had faded by that time as well, because he wasn't hopping or scratching at anything when he leaned out of the window. That's a good thing, though - he might have fallen out of it, which would have been very messy."

"The Burning Serpent?" enquired the bemused elf, taking a sip of tea to recover from the shock of a second witch. He promptly spat it out when Pippin gave a detailed explanation of Molly's crippling curse.

Elbereth! Were all witches as dangerous as Augusta Longbottom?

"And do you know about her flying broomstick?" demanded the hobbit eagerly. Glorfindel's jaw fell, and Pippin grinned. "You don't? Well she has one! It looks like a normal broom, except you can sit on it and fly! _Fly! _Isn't that exciting? Well, it would be more exciting if she had let me sit on it, but she won't let me or Merry near it, which is a tragedy, in my opinion."

Glorfindel had to laugh at the chagrined expression on the hobbit's face. "I am certain the good lady had only your safety at heart," he said in an attempt to console the hobbit, liking the sound of Lady Molly very much.

"And did I tell you about the black puddings? They're delicious, but they're not puddings either. I think she and Neville must come from a very strange place, if all their puddings are savoury."

"If it is strange at all, then I do not believe it to be chiefly due to their peculiar taste in puddings," muttered Gandalf, "though I am little surprised that a Hobbit would mark that as the chief oddity of their world."

"Well food _is_ important, Gandalf," retorted the hobbit pertly.

"Indeed," said Glorfindel absently before transferring his gaze to the White Wizard. "I see now the dilemma you were in, mellon nin. 'Tis little wonder to me now that you acted as you did, for I see that you had no choice. Forgive me my harsh judgement of your actions."

Gandalf smiled. "There is naught to forgive, my friend. You acted as you aught to have, given that I had seemingly betrayed the lady to whom you have grown so close. For my part, I admit relief that we waited until now to clear this matter."

"Indeed?" Glorfindel arched his golden eyebrows.

"Certainly. Had I encountered you at the very height of your wrath … well, battling the Flame of Udûn is one matter; battling an angry elven Lord is quite another. I am not entirely certain I would have prevailed."

"You did meet him not minutes after he left Mrs Longbottom in the dungeons, Gandalf. Glorfindel could have easily battled you then - in fact, I thought he very well might do so!"

"True," admitted the wizard, "yet at that time I had the advantage of a deadly Hobbit slingshot just waiting to be unleashed by an eager Took. You would have felled him in seconds!"

The three friends shared a laugh at the thought of Pippin besting Glorfindel in battle, and the atmosphere thawed noticeably. Yet as relieved as Glorfindel was to be once more on good terms with his fellow Balrog-slayer, his thoughts were still troubled by Augusta's dilemma and the approaching confrontation with Sauron's forces.

"I have seen much activity on the Citadel these past days," he began, setting his cup on the table and folding his hands on his lap. "How goes the plan to defend the City, Mithrandir?"

His query was met with astonishment.

"You do not know?"

Glorfindel chuckled dryly. "The Steward is not keen to share much with me of late, given the trouble the Green Witch and I have inadvertently caused since our arrival. I admit that in the few times I have met with him since my aunt's internment, that I have spent much of our meetings trying to convince him to liberate her. He has steadfastly refused, of course. I am not permitted to so much as visit her."

There was a clear note of resentment in his voice and, upon registering it, the elf took a cleansing breath to purge it.

"I have also offered him counsel and my services in battle. My counsel he has refused, though he has accepted the service of my sword -"

However ungratefully. Denethor's exact words had been _'You may fight if you wish, lord Elf, yet even if you did not I suspect the choice will be thrust upon you in the end, unless you are willing to lay down arms and let the first orc who meets you part your head from your shoulders without so much as a struggle; for I suspect that the Dark Lord's army shall soon overrun this City, and there is naught that you or I may do to prevent it.'_

Glorfindel had been left completely in awe of the man's rampant optimism.

"- I have liased with various captains of the Guard on every level in an attempt to elucidate myself as to the manner of his defence, yet none are entirely certain what their lord has planned for the coming conflict. Denethor has not seen fit thus far to enlighten me as to his strategy and I have therefore little idea as to how I might best be of use to either him or his people."

Gandalf nodded in understanding. "I doubt that even the Steward himself is aware of what he will do to counter the attack. He is much occupied with his grief in the loss of Boromir and pays little attention to other matters. Faramir has reported to him of his meeting with Frodo in Ithilien three days since, and now knows what charge he bears with him. That his youngest son allowed the Ring-bearer freedom to continue his quest instead of delivering the Ring to Gondor has provoked his ire. Needless to say, his regard for Faramir has lessened considerably since he learned of this."

"I was unaware that his regard for Faramir could possibly lessen any further," quipped the elf, recalling the scorn in Denethor's voice when he spoke of his younger son many days since. "Yet it is troubling indeed that he occupies himself with such matters when assault is imminent. Already I have heard that Osgiliath is under siege, and there are barely six thousand Men to hold the defence of Minas Tirith if those valiant soldiers fall to the Enemy. Minas Tirith can ill afford the luxury of its Steward's grief. This is the time for action!"

"Action indeed. And you may know that sooner than you think, Glorfindel, if the Shadow which covers the City is any indication," said Gandalf grimly. "The Prince of Dol Amroth has called for a counsel of all lords who have arrived of late to plan just such a strategy as you would wish for. He asks for your attendance and your guidance, if you are willing."

The invitation was barely made before it was accepted with a firm nod. "I accept wholeheartedly. The Lord of Dol Amroth shall find me more than willing to offer what counsel I may. He at least may be willing to listen where his kin is not."

"Imrahil will be pleased. Pippin shall call upon you at sunrise tomorrow and bring you to the Citadel ere he commences with his duties."

Pippin blinked. "I shall? Of course I shall. It will be my pleasure. But what if my lord discovers I have brought one to conference that he did not invite?"

A good question. Denethor had already denied Glorfindel a say in the city's defence; surely he would be displeased to discover the elf was participating regardless of his wishes? The warrior looked to Gandalf, but the wizard seemed unperturbed.

"Imrahil will speak with him ere then. Denethor may be reluctant to hear the counsel of Wizard or Elf, but he may be more receptive to the brother of his beloved wife, though she be dead many years since," said Gandalf with conviction. The White Wizard relaxed into his chair, an unmistakable smile hovering on his lips as he addressed his host. "And now, Glorfindel of Imladris, you have some explaining of your own to do."

The elf frowned, having no idea what he meant. "I am at a loss to imagine what explanation you seek," he said a moment later, after wracking his brains.

"Do you not?" Gandalf enquired with a quirk of his mouth. "Then I shall enlighten you: I refer to Aragog son of Halbarad. Explain."

The tinkling of laughter filled the air at his demand and soon it was joined by that of Gandalf and Pippin as, for the remainder of their visit, Glorfindel related in great detail all the colourful exploits of the Green Witch and the Invisible Elf, and explained the existence of Halbarad the Ranger's latest (and hairiest) offspring.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Author's Note_: Some text lifted from The Lord of the Rings, The Return of the King, Book Five, Chapter 3: Minas Tirith and Chapter 4: The Siege of Gondor.

This is probably the chapter with which I am least satisfied. I had planned to get straight into an Augusta scene here, but it would have been a disservice not to address the matter of Glorfindel/Gandalf. Unfortunately, I've been hit with a nasty case of writer's block, and found this chapter particularly difficult to write. In fact, I started on the Augusta one, but that gave me as much trouble, so I had to abandon it and tackle this instead. I fear the next two chapters may be equally as daunting before I can get to the parts that see me back on terra firma, so I hope you'll stick with me until then …

Thanks for your support, folks,

Kara's Aunty ;)


	34. I Dreamed a Dream of Times Gone By

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. and Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

**Credit: **www dot wikipedia dot org and www dot Tuckborough dot net. Les Miserables.

Reviews appreciated (even if not deserved).

**Chapter 34**

* * *

_Minas Tirith_

_Third Age 12th March 3019_

"Utter nonsense. Absolute poppycock. Sheer madness!"

For the umpteenth time in two days, Augusta Longbottom huffed impatiently at the red-and-gold embossed book, _The Ancientry of the Eldar Children of Ilúvatar,_ which Faramir had kindly left her after his unexpected visit. What she had thought to be a mere childcare manual had turned out to be something very different altogether.

_Very_ different.

Not that it wasn't fascinating; but for Merlin's sake, what was the author all about, writing such nonsense about house-elves? Created by mysterious deities? Gifted with immortal life? Impervious to disease and illness? Rubbish! That didn't sound like any house-elf she had ever known! Why, her great aunt Persephone's elf, Blinky, had been the biggest hypochondriac alive! Forever imagining he was about to drop dead if he so much as sneezed ...

"Argh! Carpathian 'flu, Mistress! Blinky is doomed!" she recalled him wailing one time when her mother dragged her along for a visit. They had all sat down for dinner when the histrionics began, and eight-year-old Augusta recoiled in horror as droplets of elf-snot landed in her freshly-served bowl of pea and ham soup. It had been _most_ distressing when she was forced to eat it afterwards (her mother and great aunt having been too busy rolling their eyes at Blinky to realise their soup had acquired an extra, and very unsavoury, ingredient).

"Complete codswallop!" she now sniffed, eyeing the pretty book as if it had personally force-fed her the detested soup all those years ago (she hadn't touched peas or ham since).

The elderly witch paced her tiny cell impatiently, though her eyes never left the book; it was burning a figurative hole on the little shelf under the high window that served as her table.

Why would a Muggle - who claimed to have personally interacted with elves - write such nonsense about them? And why had it been allowed? It was all very well for the governments of New Zealand (both Muggle and magical) to try to integrate both their societies, but what was the point of it all if they let people write such blatant tripe? It was misinformation of the grossest magnitude! And misinformation led to misunderstandings, which led to hostility, conflict, and eventually war.

Good heavens, it was hardly a wonder that the Dark wizard Sauron was trying to take over the world if this type of literature was the norm. It wouldn't surprise Augusta in the least if this whole rotten business with the maniac from Mordor had begun with nothing more than an exposé on the man himself! Perhaps some silly editor had unwisely printed a poorly researched article in the national newspaper claiming him to be little more than a raging Squib? Or New Zealand's answer to Rita Skeeter (an elfish one, given that the book had vaguely alluded to elves' previous clashes with Sauron) had written an equally ill-advised, and equally scandalous biography on the fellow, possibly titled _Sauron: My Life as an Eyesore_, and it had so enraged him that he had declared war on the entire country, Muggles, wizards and elves alike?

Hmph. The country should hardly be surprised by his reaction then, should it? One couldn't go around breaking the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy and not expect there to be consequences somewhere down the line. In fact, it was high time the international magical community interceded to fix this entire debacle and reprimand New Zealand for endangering its citizens in such a careless fashion! Co-existence between wizards and Muggles was all good and well on paper, but in reality it was little more than a tool for megalomaniacs like Sauron to run amok through both societies - especially when there were so few wizards (and absolutely no witches) to keep him in check.

Well, no witches apart from Augusta Longbottom. Unluckily for Sauron …

Augusta spared a glance at the high window above; there had been no light spilling through it for two days now, a fact which was forcing Vandomar to frequent her cell on multiple occasions simply to renew her torches. Upon questioning the Gondorian about the latest news from the city, he would do little more than frown in concern and mumble about 'dark clouds of doom issuing forth from Mordor to sweep us all to our deaths'. No amount of questioning on her part could coax a more detailed explanation from the increasingly gloomy man. It was beyond frustrating, knowing she had the means to assist, but was not permitted to do so. And despite his promise to appeal to the Steward on her behalf, Augusta had heard nothing more from Faramir regarding her possible release. What's more, her recently acquired nephew was still being refused visitation rights, so Augusta had absolutely no idea how he was or what he was planning to do in defence of the city.

It was all too irritating for words.

The Green Witch came to a halt before the 'table' and returned her bright blue gaze to the outrageous book sitting so innocently atop it. She reached out a hand to tap a bony finger on the cover, her thoughts whirling.

As ridiculous as she found the vast content of _The Ancientry of the Eldar Children of Ilúvatar_, there were some parts of it which _had _unsettled her …

With a quick flick of her wrist, she opened the book and reread the prologue.

_Elves, also known as the Firstborn or the Elder Children of Ilúvatar, were conceived by Eru himself during the third theme of Ainulindalë, and are the eldest and noblest of the speaking races of Middle-earth. They awoke by Cuiviénen in the starlight of the Sleep of Yavanna, before the creation of either Sun or Moon. The first Elves to become aware numbered six: Imin ("First") and his wife Iminyë, Tata ("Second") and Tatië, and Enel ("Third") and Enelyë. Imin, Tata, and Enel and their wives joined up and walked through the forests …_

Augusta sniffed, marvelling once more at the author's complete ineptness. Elves born before the Sun and Moon just to take a walk in the forest? It was ridiculous! The book went on to describe two main groups of elves: the Eldar, and the Avari.

_Of the Avari this book shall say but little, for theirs is a tale of its own that shall be spun upon its own web and contained within the folds of parchment for study at a later time. For the present, let us wander the histories of the Eldar, and their sub-groups, Quenya and Tengwar…_

Another sniff. Who knew house-elves were so hierarchical?

_Fair of face, long of limb, and graceful beyond all others, the Eldar possess many times the strength of Men_, claimed the author on the next page. Augusta rifled through a few more, looking for the page which had first made her stop to wonder at the author's sanity. Finally …

_Elves remain unwearied with age; disease has no affect upon them, and they are able to recover from wounds which would kill the lesser races; though it is known that they can be slain, or die from grief or weariness of spirit._

Ah, there it was. She ran a finger down the page, skimming the words until another paragraph jumped out.

_Masters of song and art, Elves are also unmatched in the shaping of precious metals and gems by all but the Children of Aulë, more commonly known as Dwarves._

Which was news to Augusta. Upon first reading that particular titbit, the elderly witch's eyebrows had almost climbed off her face in surprise. But it was the illustration on the following page which had really rattled her. Tentatively, she thumbed the page and looked once more at the beautifully detailed (but eerily still) drawing of an 'elf'. Though it was difficult to depict hair or eye colour, given that the drawing was sketched in black and white, the elf portrayed was not remotely akin to anyone employed by her late great aunt or any other wizarding family in Britain. Fine-boned and elegant, the elf sat slightly hunched over a table, his (scandalously) long hair flowing out of sight down his back, and his slender eyebrows drawn together as he used a long sharp tool to manipulate the clasp of a very delicate necklace by candlelight. Underneath the sketching were the words:

'_A depiction of Celebrimbor, Elven-smith of Ost-in-Edhil.'_

The book went on to explain that the sketch was a copy, and that the artist of the original was unknown, as was the fate of Celebrimbor himself. But it wasn't the fate of either artist or subject that had disturbed Neville's grandmother; it was the author's claim that the subject was an elf.

And that this 'elf' sported a pair of suspiciously pointy ears - ears identical to almost every inhabitant of Imladris, and her very own Floor-kindle.

Which meant that either Saruman had been running around the country hexing the ears of every exceptionally dashing chap he stumbled across, or …

Or what? That Celebrimbor, Elrond and all the inhabitants of Imladris (bar Bilbo and that ale-swigging bunch of furry-faced Rangers) were, in fact, the elves of which the author spoke? But how could that possibly be true?

Elves or not, there was no disputing the fact that they were as far removed from the house-elves of her acquaintance as a toothbrush was from a Firebolt (not that she had needed a toothbrush this past decade - she wore dentures. And, were it not for Neville's presence in her house, she might have completely forgotten what a real toothbrush looked like). Why, if the author were to be believed (which he was not), then New Zealand's elves were more akin to the human race in appearance than they were to Blinky's peers.

Pulling the chair out, Augusta took a seat, the little red book still opened at the sketch of Celebrimbor. She was not averse to the idea of another race of people on the opposite side of the world whose name bore similarity to that of a race in Britain, even if the similarity stopped there. It wasn't unknown for wizards to make such fantastical discoveries, even in these modern times. What _did_ stretch the bounds of reality for her was that if she accepted the existence of New Zealand's elves as fact, then she would also have to accept the other claims the author had made: that they were invincible.

And, more notably, immortal.

Augusta shook her head in denial. No. that was a step too far. It was utterly impossible.

True, Elrond and all his astonishingly pretty friends were quite as tall and fair as the book said. More so than any human she had ever known or heard of, and certainly a far cry from a house-elf. They were polite, elegant and exceptionally intelligent. During her stay in the Last Homely House, she had also taken note of the fact that they moved with incredible speed when the occasion called for it (usually whenever they spotted her approaching them in the dining hall, wand out, empty cup in hand, and the dreaded threat of Earl Grey about to turn into a nightmarish reality). At the time, she had put it down to the fact that they were a bunch of strapping New Zealanders, but now …

The clink of a key in a lock heralded the arrival of her evening meal and Augusta turned to find a guard opening the door. He ushered in a girl of roughly Neville's age. It was Vandomar's daughter, Sareth, one of the few ladies currently remaining in Gondor. From what the elderly witch had gathered from the child, Vandomar's wife had died during complications at Sareth's birth, and both his sons had been killed by Sauron's forces, leaving father and daughter alone for the past six months. Devastated by the deaths of her brothers, Sareth had declared to her father that she would rather die with him in Minas Tirith than live in temporary safety in a strange land, where she may very well end up dying alone anyway, if the enemy prevailed in battle against Gondor. It made a rather poignant sort of sense to Augusta, and she couldn't help but admire the sweet-tempered child for it.

Sareth smiled at her in greeting. While the girl was no beauty, she did have a pleasant oval-shaped face, big grey eyes, and a head of thick, jet black hair that offset her surprisingly pale complexion in a very sweet manner. Unfortunately, it was spoiled by two of the largest front teeth Augusta had ever seen in a woman: they protruded well over her bottom lip and drew one's gaze like a Seeker to a Snitch. Luckily for Sareth, Augusta Longbottom had both impeccable manners and an iron will, because nothing short of that could have kept her eyes from fixing themselves firmly on her companion's gnashers otherwise.

"Your evening repatht, my Lady," said Sareth, lisping slightly through her enormous teeth. The girl curtsied prettily while still mamaging to balance the laden tray she carried.

"Thank you, young lady," replied Augusta politely, refusing to stare at the girl's unfortunate overbite, and thanking Merlin that Sareth had had the foresight to cover her plates with a cloth. She shifted _The Ancientry of the Eldar Children of Ilúvatar_ onto the adjacent shelf, leaving Sareth room to deposit her tray. "You wouldn't happen to know what time it is?" she asked, uncovering a warm plate of roast chicken and vegetables, and a bowl of spiced berries in honey.

"Thix hourth patht noon, my Lady," said Sareth softly. Years of lisping had obviously made the girl very self-conscious in company: her voice had never been raised above a whisper in Augusta's cell. "I hope you do not object to honey with your dethert. Cream ith difficult to come by now that the dairy cowth have been evacuated from the Pelennor."

"Honey is more than acceptable," said Augusta, offering her a rare smile, and wishing once again that she had her wand to hand. One good swish of that would reduce those choppers to a much more manageable size for the poor child. Oh, well.

Sareth curtsied once more and started towards the door when she suddenly stopped and returned to Augusta's side. Dipping her hands into the voluminous front pocket of her apron, she pulled out another book, much to the elderly prisoner's subdued delight.

"Beg pardon, Lady Longbottom; the Lord Faramir bade me bring you thith."

Augusta accepted the book gratefully, silently thanking the Steward's son for his thoughtfulness, but wishing he could have brought it himself. She had a feeling he would have been able to answer a good many of the questions that had sprung into her mind since he had left the others.

"He was not able to deliver it in person?" she asked, hating the almost wistful note in her voice.

"Nay. He left yethter morn to defend Othgiliath from the Enemy."

This was news indeed. Augusta's pulse quickened.

"So it's being attacked by Sauron's forces," she mused aloud.

"The eathtern bank fell many dayth ago. Lord Faramir and hith company hope to delay enemy progreth acroth the Anduin. May Elbereth aid and protect them!"

"I am sure he will," offered the witch in comfort, wondering who the deuce Elbereth was. Heavens, but these people had the oddest of names! "What about Minas Tirith? Have any more soldiers arrived to help defend it from that scallywag Sauron?"

And would her dashing nephew be leading them into battle, or was Denethor too irked at her to allow her nephew to assist him either? Which would be a colossally stupid thing to do, given Floor-kindle's talents in battle. All the Steward really had to do was give the statuesque blond a sword, point him in the direction of the nearest battalion of orcs, then sit back and enjoy the ensuing carnage. Archie could clear the Pelennor in a matter of minutes, if he really put his mind to it.

"No more thinth Printh Imrahil and hith company arrived three dayth ago, my Lady. I meant to bring the book to you thith very morn, but have been delayed gathering herbth for the healerth in readineth for the wounded. Forgive me."

"There's nothing to forgive, young lady," said Augusta in her usual brisk manner. "You have much more important things to do just now than run around supplying me with reading material. I'm only grateful that you were able to pass this one along at all."

She indicated her new book with a nod of the head before placing at aside. Sareth flashed her a (very) toothy smile, curtsied yet again, and departed. The guard at the door closed it with a decisive bang, leaving the witch to her own devices once more.

Once finished with her evening repast, Augusta plucked _A Philologist's Guide to Middle Earth_ from the rocky ledge; it was the second of the two books Faramir himself had delivered, but she had yet to look at it, so engrossed (and outraged) had she been with _The Ancientry of the Eldar Children of Ilúvatar_.

"Let's see if this one talks any more sense than its predecessor," she grumbled, opening the red-covered book and losing herself in its pages.

_There are at least fifteen Elvish languages and dialects,_ began the prologue in elegant flowing script,_ including, among others, Primitive Quendian, Common (the proto-language), Common Eldarin, Quenya, Goldogrin, Telerin, Sindarin, Ikorin, Nandorin and Avarin._

_The languages of Men are many and count Rohirric, Dalish, Rhovanion, Haladin, Dunlendish, Drûg, Haradrim and Easterling among their numbers, yet this book shall concern itself with but three of the chief tongues: Taliska, __Adûnaic, and, most prevalently, Soval Pharë – known as Common Speech or Westron._

_Khuzdûl is the spoken language of the Dwarves, though little is known of its construction and form. There exists also a 'language of the hands' known as __Iglishmêk which – it is rumoured - all Dwarves learn from childhood. Sadly, given the secretive nature of Dwarves, philologists may never have the opportunity to verify the existence of this truly fascinating language, or to study it in depth._

With the almost permanent darkness outside, it was difficult for Augusta to tell the exact time of day, though, with Sareth having provided dinner earlier, she knew it must at least be evening. Nevertheless, the elderly witch (having no prior engagements) read on for several hours, lost in the fascinating world of Middle Earth's numerous species and languages. At one point, she curled up on the straw mattress that served as her bed and continued to absorb the plethora of facts detailed in _A Philologist's Guide to Middle Earth._ Eventually, inevitably, fatigue descended. Her eyelids began to droop and the red book slipped from her slackened fingers. Soon, Augusta was lost in a (very odd) dream about French-speaking trees, poetry-spouting orcs and golden-haired house-elves …

**XXX**

At some point in the night, Augusta's dreams took a decidedly bizarre turn indeed.

She was sitting in her favourite armchair in her comfortable Yorkshire home, and was just about to despatch Lord Elrond (dressed in a rather skimpy pillow-case) on an errand to Diagon Alley, when the living-room flickered and Elrond vanished. In his place was one of the prettiest women Augusta had ever clapped eyes on. Tall of stature, with piercing grey eyes and ruby lips, the lady had the shiniest hair Augusta had ever seen outside of Madam Charlotte's Not For Harlots Beauty Boutique.

"Who are you? And where is my house-elf?" demanded the dream-Augusta, irked beyond belief that her arthritic (yet dashing) servant had been replaced by this mysterious beauty.

But the lady did not answer her question. Instead, she replied "Long and far have we searched for thee, Green Witch. Praise Eru that it was not in vain! Be not afraid, good lady."

Afraid? Of a slip of a girl? Nonsense! Augusta Longbottom was made of sterner stuff than that!

"Well, what do you want?" she demanded, rising from her chair, planting a hand on her hips and wagging a finger at the stunning intruder. "And how the deuce did you get into my house? If you're one of those bothersome reporters from the _Prophet_, you can tell them that my grandson will not be giving any interviews! And neither will I! It's nobody's business but his how he feels about being named _Playwizard of the Year_! That blasted low-shelf filth – Neville 'Three-Legs' Longbottom indeed! How they got those photographs of him I'll never know! And it's definitely _not_ your business to know where his birthmark is either!"

The lovely visitor opened her perfect lips to speak, but her impromptu hostess narrowed her eyes suspiciously and barged ahead. "You're not a reporter at all, are you? No pad, no quill … You're one of those Hogwarts Hero groupies, aren't you? Merlin, help us! Will we never be rid of you? Well, Neville absolutely does _not_ want to marry you – and neither do I, before you ask!"

"The time hath come for thee to embrace thy fate, Green Witch!" responded the lady in a beautifully tinkling, yet oddly detached, voice. She seemed completely unperturbed by the elderly woman's rant. "Thou dost know the truth already, in thy heart of hearts. Be not afraid to open thine eyes and embrace it!"

"Embrace my fate? Are you threatening me?"

"In error thee came to Middle Earth, with neither invitation nor preparation. But thou hast rallied thy spirits wondrously! This we have witnessed in the Window of Arda, my beloved and I. Thou hast fought for Light without request, and thee dwell now in Darkness without just cause. Yet fear not! Thy fortitude and spirit pleases us, and we would see thee rewarded, in time. Yet that day lies before us. For now, thou must heed our words: Belay thy search! For he whom thou seek will come to thee when the time is right. Remain within Minas Tirith's walls!"

"Miinas Tirith?" repeated dream-Augusta, confused. "What the devil are you talking about? Is this some sort of tactic to throw me off guard? Well it won't work! You won't get near my grandson until I've thoroughly vetted your background and that of your parents! And if I get so much as one whiff of a pure-blood supremacist in your family tree -"

"Heed my words, Green Witch," cried the nameless lady, extending one of her shapely arms and pointing a finger at Augusta. The stranger began to shimmer and fade. "Open thine eyes! Remain within the City, and that which thou seek shall find thee there! Stray, and thee may lose it forever! Open thine eyes!"

Dream-Augusta reached out to stop her uninvited guest from leaving, but her hand grasped thin air. Annoyed, she returned to her armchair, grumbling about intruders and determined to strengthen the wards on her house. But as she lowered herself to sit, the armchair disappeared, and she fell.

And fell, and fell. A vortex of images swirled around her as she plummeted to Merlin knew only where. Faces and places she had known, and some that were new to her. Or were they? One was familiar: statuesque, golden-haired, manic glint in his silvery eyes … it was Floor-kindle! And there was the pillow-case-clad Elrond (who would have guessed he had such a fine pair of legs?).

The faces faded to be replaced by the darkness of night, lit only by twinkling stars. Augusta's descent slowed, allowing her to peer at the glowing blue orb which had suddenly appeared beneath her.

Good Heavens! Was that ... good grief ! Was she suspended _above the planet Earth_? She blinked. Yes! She was. What a very odd dream! Why, there was Italy! She'd recognise that boot-shaped mass anywhere. And look, over there – the Great Wall of China!

There was no doubt about it, she was definitely in space. Which meant that she, Augusta Longbottom, was ...

The planet's first ever astrowitch!

The blue orb began to spin faster beneath her; then faster, and faster again. But it was rotating anti-clockwise. Puzzled, Augusta could only watch and wonder as the continents began to change, appearing to magically separate and reshape themselves into a different formation. A huge land mass took shape: mainly green, abundant with silvery lakes and rivers, and dotted with miles upon miles of huge rocky prominences that were unmistakably mountain ranges. To the East and South were many arid stretches of desert, scattered here and there with splashes of blue and green which appeared all the more vivid in colour in their surroundings. Strangely though, there were vast areas of white tapering to the extreme North and East: at first Augusta thought it might be ice – it was difficult to tell due to the speed of the planet's rotations - but as her steady descent took her nearer, it seemed more as if they were simply blank – as if they had yet to be completed.

How utterly bizarre!

The spinning planet beneath began to slow until it stopped, then it resumed a normal clockwise rotation once more. Its surface now was almost unrecognisable from the Earth she knew. As she descended further and the planet continued to turn on its axis, Augusta was able to note that further west of the main land mass was a great glowing haze, though whether there was land beneath it she couldn't tell. It looked from this distance almost as if the haze sparkled, but that might have been a trick of the light. Soon it was out of sight and, as the larger land mass appeared again, her descent began to increase until she was once again falling, falling, plummeting toward the continent, speeding towards a very unpleasant (and very messy) doom (though at least it would be quick). And all the while, three words repeated themselves over and over again ...

_Open thine eyes! Open thine eyes!_

She had now broken through the planet's atmosphere and was speeding towards one of the southern mountain ranges at a truly alarming velocity. To her left Augusta could see a volcano spitting great clouds of thick dark smoke into the air, and fervently hoped that _that_ wasn't intended to be her final destination. It would be most unfortunate to have fallen so far only to land in a burning pit – at least if she hit the ground she'd be dead before she knew it.

Though what a very great pity it was that she couldn't have landed on Gwendolyn Farragut into the bargain! That way, she could have done the world a favour and taken the vicious old biddy with her …

The ground was closing fast. Past the peaks of the first mountains she fell, whizzing down towards – not the volcano – but a great, white, many-tiered city on a rocky outcrop nearby. It was starkly familiar, and she groaned in annoyance.

How utterly spiffing! Death by Minas Tirith! Denethor would be thrilled.

Augusta closed her eyes just before she was skewered on the Tower of Ecthelion.

_Nay! Open thine eyes, Green Witch! Open thine eyes!_

**XXX **

Augusta's eyes flew open, and she jerked up in her bed with a great gasp. Heaving, she sprang from the mattress with surprising agility, and _A Philologist's Guide to Middle Earth_ fell to the ground with a thump. Her hands flew to her chest, where her sense of touch was enough to tell her that the Tower of Ecthelion was not protruding from it (which came as a huge relief); but her dream had been so vivid that her eyes sought for a gaping hole that they might have missed. Luckily, her bright blue orbs confirmed it: she was alive and well.

Shaking, Augusta poured herself a glass of water and drank it all before pouring a second.

Heavens, if that wasn't the worst dream she had ever had! Worse, even, than the one where she'd turned up to a meeting of the Wizengamot wearing nothing more than her birthday suit and a very fetching smile!

Too alert now to go back to sleep, Augusta sat at the very basic dining area, pulled _The Ancientry of the Eldar Children of Ilúvatar_ towards her and tapped the cover thoughtfully with her finger.

As grateful to Faramir as she was for his thoughtfulness, these deuced books he'd given her had left Augusta completely rattled. Granted, it was probably not _solely_ the fault of the books, given all that she'd been through in the past few weeks: finding herself suddenly thrust onto the other side of the world, being held hostage by a cad of a wizard, then rescued by an enormous talking bird, holidaying in Imladris, fighting orcs with Floor-kindle and all those charming Rohirrim, and now imprisoned once again, only this time by a dithering despot who thought she was an ageing slapper intent on seducing one half his medieval city and Confounding the other. And not a one of these people had ever seen a witch before, or even so much as heard of England!

Never heard of England …

Her thoughts flitted back to the closing half of her dream, when the continents of planet Earth had rearranged themselves into one strangely unfamiliar mass, and she harrumphed.

That was exactly what Middle Earth felt like: a completely different …

Once more, Augusta's breath caught in her throat as a strange thought struck: what if her dream hadn't been a dream at all? What if … what if …

_Open thine eyes! _The beautiful stranger's voice seemed to reverberate in her mind as she contemplated the outrageous possibility.

What if _what_? What if she had been transported to a different planet by her grandson's_ forehead_? Is that what the dream had been trying to tell her?

Poppycock! Absolute nonsense! The Portus spell wasn't nearly strong enough to turn Neville's forehead into a Portkey that powerful! And even if it had been, there wasn't another Earth-like planet in the known solar system – so she would probably have been transported to Mars instead, or Jupiter, at a push. Not that she was complaining: either of those options would have been an instant death sentence to both Neville and herself. No. They were still on Earth. They must be.

Though one thing was clear: wherever_ on_ Earth she was, it was not New Zealand. Or Australia. In fact, it wasn't anywhere she had ever heard of before – and that was beginning to concern her.

Where on Earth _was_ Augusta Longbottom?

And why had no one ever heard of Voldemort? Or England? Or New Zealand? Or even Queen Elizabeth? No matter which country one was in, _everyone_ had heard of her, wizard or Muggle.

Then again, Augusta hadn't seen any evidence of known Muggle technology or mass communication since her arrival, so how _could_ they know of dear old Betty Windsor? There were no telly-fissions or telly-fones to speak of, no electra-city pile-ons, no motor-cars – not even so much as a newspaper. It was almost as if she had been transported back to the Middle Ages …

A feeling of deep dismay gripped her as several things clicked into place and started to make a horrible sort of sense.

The dress code. The old-fashioned vernacular. The rangers' odd behaviour at breakfast that first morning she had spent in Imladris …

It had only been odd because they were unfamiliar with her _twentieth century_ vernacular and customs! _That's_ why she had had to explain what 'alcoholic' meant! And why they thought Mr Longbottom had died defending her honour!

It also explained why Lindir had never heard of Celestina Warbeck.

Her mind was reeling. Surely this was just a coincidence, though? She couldn't _really_ have been transported back to medieval times!

Another thought struck her: perhaps _that_ was what the 'middle' in Middle Earth meant – it wasn't a geographical reference at all, it was a _time _reference. It meant _Middle Ages_!

Merlin's shaggy white beard! Could it be true? Had Neville's forehead not been a Portkey at all, but some sort of super-powered time-turner? But that was impossible, wasn't it?

Or was it?

What else could reasonably explain the lack of modern Muggle conveniences here? Or the popularity of horses as a mode of transport? Or even the extraordinary names people had? Not to mention the raging gallantry exhibited by the one half of the male population that wasn't either trying to kill or imprison her? And then there was the manner in which the natives dressed, with their tunics, leggings and flowing skirts.

So astonished was she that Augusta could actually hear the blood thrumming through her ears; it made a rhythmic _whoosh-whooshing_ noise. Her hands felt hot, and her skin tingled all over.

Was this what her dream visitor had meant when she told Augusta to open her eyes?

Had Augusta actually had a vision?

No. That would make her a Seer, something which was definitely not true. No, her dream had been little more than a manifestation of all her growing suspicions finally reshaping themselves into a truth she had long suspected, but had not wanted to admit to herself. And if she hadn't had so much time on her hands of late, she might never have admitted it at all.

And that was exactly the point: _time_.

Augusta had been transported back in time. How far back, she didn't know, but far back enough that magic was widely accepted by most of the population as a common, everyday occurrence; far back enough that house-elves (as she knew them) didn't exist.

And far back enough that the Eldar Children of Ilúvatar did.

But could that be true? Was Floor-kindle an elf? Was Lindir immortal? And Elrond?

She blushed as she recalled advising the Lord of Imladris to stop bowing at her, fearful that his arthritis would lock him at the waist ...

Oh, dear. If he really was immortal, and she ever got out of this blasted place and saw him again, she really must apologise for that.

Another dreadful thought occurred to her then: what would happen if she did get out? Her dream had warned her to wait within the City walls, to wait for Neville to find _her_. Not that she placed too much stock in the dream. Then again, it _had_ opened her eyes to the truth, so could she really afford to ignore it?

Oh, all this second- and third-guessing was making her dizzy! Why the devil should she be worried about a rather vague warning in a rather silly dream? Besides, it wasn't as if she had any intention of leaving Minas Tirith_ until_ Neville appeared. In fact, Augusta was rather counting on the fact that he would make his way here eventually.

But when he did, would Neville's time-turning forehead be able to transport them both back to their proper environment, or would they be stuck in Middle Earth forever? Gracious! What if they were? What if she died here and Neville was left to fend for himself? Would he be able to live in this world? Be happy here? Get married, have …

GOOD HEAVENS!

Her breath caught in her throat as Augusta thought of the most outrageous possibility yet.

What if her grandson was the actual founder of the Longbottom line? _What if Frank had fathered his own ancestor?_

It was too much. The glass she had been gripping suddenly shattered in her hand as, for the second time in a month, the elderly witch performed accidental magic. Glass flew everywhere, and water spilled over her copy of _The Eldar Children of Ilúvatar_. But Augusta was too furious to care. Her mind was in turmoil.

And it was all Neville's fault!

_How_ he had managed to get them both into this mess, she didn't know. But one thing was clear: Neville had better not be in _too_ much of a hurry to reach Minas Tirith because – given the way she felt right now – the line of Longbottom might very well end before it ever started! Curling her fists in frustration and anger, she let forth a cry of pure (grand)maternal ire.

_"When I get my hands on that boy!"_

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Author's Note_: Yes folks, pop the champagne corks - NQAM is back! Granted, it's a bit rough round the edges, thanks to a little lingering writer's block, but back nonetheless. I can only apologise for the wait and hope I haven't lost too many readers.

The next chapter will definitely be Neville's (I don't know when it'll be up, though it definitely won't be an epic wait), but I absolutely had to get this one out the way first. Trying to plan how Augusta finally comes to terms with her environment has been giving me grief for a year – it may even have triggered the initial block. But it's done now and, though there was so much more I wanted to explain/explore, I didn't want to chance my luck and be unable to finish it. Not to worry though – I can work in unresolved points later!

Anyway, I'll stop waffling and leave now ('cos my cats are in the process of mauling each other, and I really should peel them apart before Frodo upsets Rosie too much).

Thanks for sticking with me, I really appreciate it,

Kara's Aunty ;)

P.S. Thanks to Trucker for archaic language tip. I think I've finally resolved it now :o)


	35. Just Another Day at the Office

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. and Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

**Credit: **www dot hp-encyclopedia dot com, www dot Tuckborough dot net, Old English Made Easy, Frengly dot com, angelfire dot com /empire2/angora5/Translator

**Please review - it really _is_ my only reward.**

**Not Quite A Maia**

**Chapter 35**

_Rohan_

_Third Age 7th_ _March 3019_

Neville, Molly, Halbarad and the host of King Théoden rode hard for the rest of the day. It was well into the night before they finally stopped for a few hours respite, at exactly the same site they had used for their camp on the way from Edoras to Helm's Deep. At dawn they would resume their journey once more.

Molly set up one of the tents she had packed and, after a few minutes investigating and exclaiming over its wonders, Halbarad produced a map and spread it over the table in the living area. The trio sat down to study it.

"I'm confused," said Neville after several minutes of trying to make sense of the foreign markings . "Where will Sauron's troops most likely come from?"

He studied the area Halbarad had indicated was southern Gondor, their ultimate destination. The worn square of parchment depicted a large peninsula bordered on its north and east by two different mountain ranges, populated throughout with seemingly uncountable fiefdoms, and overflowing with rivers and tributaries. It was so detailed that it made the complex astronomy charts from Hogwarts seem almost comprehensible.

Almost.

If Halbarad was growing impatient with the young wizard, he was doing an excellent job of disguising it.

"Here," began the ranger once more, tracing a broad line which ran straight down the eastern side of the map, "the Anduin flows through Osgiliath, past Minas Tirith and straight down until it reaches the port city of Pelargir, where it then curves westwards. It breaks up into the Ethir Anduin, or the Mouths of the Anduin, as they are known. They are the streams which empty into the Bay of Belfalas. Halfway between Pelargir and the Mouths, the River Poros – which flows westwards from the Mountains if Shadow - empties into the Anduin. It has oft been used in the past by the Dark Lord's allies to invade Gondor. Aragorn suspects that Sauron may send a battalion over the Crossings of Poros - also known as the Ford of Poros - to monitor the eastern curve of the Anduin."

"But you don't agree?" Neville eyed the older man shrewdly: Halbarad's tone and expression were just a touch sceptical. The ranger smoothed his features

"'Tis not that I disagree, son of Longbottom. 'Tis simply that I had doubted that Sauron's allies would chance the Ford."

Molly peered at the map where his finger pointed. "Why not? Is it dangerous, this Ford?"

"Nay, lady. The Ford itself is but a bridge which spans the river. But the Haudh in Gwanur is situated high on the riverbank nearby. This is the tomb of the twin sons of King Folcwine of Rohan, who fell in battle while aiding Gondor in defeating a Haradrim invasion many years ago. Some say the tomb houses more than their bones."

He gave them a foreboding look, and Neville had a sudden, powerful urge to laugh. Did Halbarad think they might be alarmed by superstitious tales? Or ghosts? If only the bloke knew what an everyday occurrence they were at Hogwarts ...

Trying (very hard) to keep a straight face, he waited for the ranger elaborate.

"There are many wild tales that the brothers' fëar have not departed for the Halls of Mandos, but linger yet in Arda. It is rumoured that they take the form of wrathful spirits whenever they sense danger approaching Gondor. 'Tis naught but superstition, perhaps. Yet perhaps not, for the enemies of Gondor fear to pass the Ford."

_Great_, thought Neville. More ruddy twins. Was there a conspiracy afoot to upset his Guardian at every opportunity? He risked a glance at Molly; thankfully, her attention was caught by the map.

"Superstition or not, if that's what they believe then that's good news for us, isn't it?" remarked the witch.

"Perhaps. But if the Dark Lord has diverted some of his Men from the army approaching Minas Tirith, and ordered them to follow the Anduin south in search of Neville's non-existent army, they may have no choice but to overcome their fear, and fast. Their master will not allow his plans to be thwarted by old wives' tales, and woe betide his captains if they fail to obey his commands. This is what Aragorn believes."

"But you don't agree," repeated Neville.

The ranger sighed. "At first I did not, for the power of superstition is not to be underestimated, particularly not in the Haradrim. Yet the more I think of it, the more I am of an accord with my kinsman. If Sauron is gathering his forces to Mordor for an imminent strike on the West, they would have to pass the Crossings of Poros on their way up the Harad Road anyway. Nay, Aragorn has the right of it: if they have passed it once, it will be easier to pass a second time."

Neville's eyed the map once more. "Why don't they just turn west and head for Pelargir before they ever have to pass the bridge? Either way they're going to have to cross the Anduin eventually to reach Pelargir, but at least that way they can forgo the spooky brothers."

"It may be that some of them have," replied Halbarad. "Given the number of orcs, Men and other beings we suspect him to have at his disposal, Sauron could easily afford to divert several battalions south. Some of them may well turn west to support the Corsair ships Aragorn saw in the Palantír heading for Pelargir, whilst the rest take the crossing and follow the Poros to the Anduin. It would then be but a matter of following the Great River towards the Mouths, remaining ever alert for the ships they believe are sailing north."

He paused to take a draught of wine from his glass (one of many things Molly had added when rearranging the contents of her knapsack before their journey to Middle Earth began).

"What if it's not infantry we have to worry about? What if Sauron's sending more ships instead?" Neville pointed to the large bay into which the Anduin emptied. "Here. The Bay of Belfalas. That must be the way the first fleet of Corsairs used – the ones Aragorn says are on their way to Pelargir already. From there, reinforcements need only sail up the Mouths, and onto the Anduin proper. And besides, it would make sense for Sauron to send more ships to attack ships, than troops to gawk at them uselessly from the shoreline."

"If there are ships left to spare." Halbarad rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Still, we cannot discount the possibility that there _are_ additional ships; older vessels, perhaps, which they may use to control the main ports after they have been wrested from Gondor's control. This would allow the conquering fleet to sail further up the river to Minas Tirith and join the battle. Yet if the Dark Lord fears an additional threat from your five thousand men, it may be safe to assume that he will mobilise them earlier than planned."

A frown marred Molly's forehead. "But even if that was true, how far could they have gotten? It's barely been two days since Neville's confrontation with the Eye of Sauron. He'd have to send a messenger all the way from Mordor to Umbar -"

"Do not forget that Mordor's messengers have the power of flight to aid them, my Lady. It would take but one Nazgûl upon a fell steed to set events in motion sooner than planned. And if there _is_ a secondary fleet – hidden from sight on the far shore of Tolfalas, perhaps -" he indicated a large island in the bay "- and they have received new tidings from their master -"

"Then they may already be under way," finished Neville worriedly.

The ranger nodded. "The journey from Mordor to Tolfalas is markedly shorter than it is from Mordor to Umbar."

Guilt began to settle on the young wizard's shoulders as the full implications of his little chat with Sauron sank in. Not that he hadn't thought about them before, it was just that they hadn't seemed so real until now.

"How large are the armies of the southern cities?" he asked, dreading the answer.

"I can but guess at two or three thousand strong collectively," replied Halbarad, giving the teenager some hope. "Dol Amroth – the chief city of Belfalas – has the most experienced warriors of the southern fiefdoms. They have at least one large company of Swan knights as well as several hundred men-at-arms. Duinhir, the Lord of the Blackroot Vale, has command of a small company of archers, though I do not believe they number more than a few hundred. Mayhap a few hundred Men more from the river valley of Ringlo who may boast some experience in battle. The rest are mainly hill-men from the towns near the White Mountains or fishermen from various river settlements in Lamedon, Anfalas, Belfalas, Lebennin," the ranger fingered each one on the map, "and from all over southern Gondor. I cannot begin to hazard a guess at either their numbers or experience in battle."

_All over southern Gondor_. Translation: it will take ages to mobilise them and send them heading towards the Anduin …

It was a disheartening thought.

But it got worse.

"'Tis likely that the hardiest warriors have already been despatched to Minas Tirith's aid."

Brilliant. Just brilliant. Who the ruddy heck was left to fight off the Corsairs at Pelargir then, let alone any additional forces Sauron might now be sending? Shepherds? Fishermen? _Children_?

Thoughts of boys screaming in pain at Helm's Deep flashed through his mind, and Neville fervently hoped that wasn't the case here.

"This is all hypothetical, of course. It may be that there is no such secondary fleet; that Sauron only intends to send infantry. Or mayhap he will send both, hoping to block an advance of Neville's imaginary fleet from both the east and west of Pelargir."

"Either way, there probably won't be enough soldiers to fight them off," said Neville sombrely. "So we really need to get a move on if we're going to be of any help to these people. How long would it take infantry to reach the main ports of the Anduin on foot?"

"'Tis roughly a week's march from Mordor – though it would be less if a messenger had intercepted the Haradrim forces while they were still on the Harad Road."

"And a fleet of ships?" queried Molly, gripping the stem of her glass tightly.

"Depending on where they were stationed before tidings reached them … two or three days. Perhaps four if they are still docked in the Havens of Umbar."

There was a loud scraping as Neville shot out of his seat.

"It's already been almost two days since I spoke to Sauron! Those extra Corsair ships could be ready to sail up the Anduin as we speak. If they pass the main fleet at Pelargir and sail further up the river ... it won't be long before Sauron knows that I was lying about the stormtroopers!" He paced the small room in frustration whilst the others looked on. "And even if he _does_ send more troops searching down from the northern tract of the river, it'll still mean he'll have plenty of time – and be confident enough of his hold on the southern half of the Anduin - to order the main fleet of Corsairs to join the attack on Minas Tirith."

Neville halted and swung around to face Halbarad. "We need reach the southern cities quickly. We need to gather some kind of resistance and intercept Sauron's forces before they can report back to him. And whether they're ships or infantry, we need to do it fast!"

Halbarad nodded. "I agree. We can no longer afford the leisurely ride to Dunharrow. It is imperative we cross the White Mountains as soon as possible. But we cannot take the Paths of the Dead; that is Aragorn's duty now. Which means we are left but with one other option."

There was a pregnant pause as the ranger visibly steeled himself to continue. Not a good sign, in Neville's opinion. Still, whatever the 'other option' was, there was no choice but to take it, however horrible it turned out to be. Halbarad took a deep breath and eyed them gravely.

"We must chance the Pass of Déafyrhte."

Brilliant. Whatever it was, the doom-and-gloom tone he used made it sound ten times worse then the Paths of the Dead. But what could possibly be worse than an army of potentially evil ghosts?

And did Neville really want to find out?

Feeling obliged to at least ask the question, he did.

"And, er, what is this 'Pass of Déafyrhte'?"

"I know not the exact Rohirrim name, but it translates roughly into the Pass of Deadly Fear."

Sounded like a right good laugh. Neville couldn't wait to get there.

"This close to the mountains," continued Halbarad, "it is but four hours ride from our current position. The path leading to the Pass is narrow and dangerous. Rohirrim legend also tells of a terrible evil lurking near the Pass itself."

Of course it did. Hopefully the 'terrible evil' wasn't Professor Scumbridge ... But no; last thing Neville heard, she was wilting away in Azkaban.

"What evil would that be?"

"No one knows. None that have dared the Pass of Déafyrhte have ever returned to give an account of it."

What a surprise. Weren't there _any_ safe roads in Middle Earth?

"Well I don't know about you two, but _I_ don't much like the sound of that," sniffed Molly. "Isn't there another way to get to Dol Amroth?"

"Only if we wish to go around the White Mountains, which would mean taking the Great West Road to Minas Tirith then following the South Road all the way to Pelargir, then to the City itself – a journey of many leagues. This would add more than a week to our journey even were we to ride without pause. Needless to say we have not the time to spare for such a diversion. It shall be quicker to cross the mountains and head east for the Blackroot Vale. From there our journey will be significantly shorter."

"You've been there before?" queried the flame-haired witch.

A nod of affirmation "In my youth I have had cause to visit both Anfalas and Dol Amroth, yes."

"Oh, what a pity you didn't take a photo, dear! I could've Apparated us there in the blink of an eye."

Their companion looked puzzled and, wanting to avoid any further misunderstandings about 'foe-toes', Neville said; "A picture; a portrait, of sorts. If we knew what the place looked like, Molly could used magic to get us there within seconds."

Oddly enough, Halbarad wasn't as impressed with that nugget of information as the average Rohirrim might have been: he simply took it in his stride as if he'd grown up hearing such things on a daily basis. Neville shrugged.

"What about Legilimency, Molly? Can you read his thoughts and get some sort of a mental picture?"

The ranger shifted uncomfortably. Apparently the thought of someone sifting through his memories was as unpleasant to Halbarad as it had been to Neville back in Lothlórien. But the man needn't have worried; Molly shook her head regretfully.

"No, dear. I never had the time to learn, what with the children. A pity, though; it would certainly have come in handy with those rascals ..."

She trailed off, her eyes unfocussed, and for a moment Neville thought she was thinking of Fred again. But she shook her head and the moment passed.

"Anyway. No photos, no Legilimency and therefore no Apparition. It seems we'll just have to take the Pass. If only I had a …"

For the second time Molly paused. Her hand flew to her chest and she gasped aloud. Neville reached over the table in concern.

"What is it? Are you all right?"

"All right? No, it can't be, can it? Can it? What if it is? And how could she possibly have known ... of course! The Mirror! Merlin's beard! But would it be compatible, that's the question?"

The matronly witch rose so suddenly that her chair fell backwards, and she dashed into the small bedroom muttering to herself all the way. Neville and Halbarad exchanged a look of confusion.

"What is she -" began the older man.

"Haven't got a clue," finished Neville, retaking his seat. Seconds later, Molly rushed back with her knapsack in hand. She sat it on the table and started digging inside it furiously.

"Now I'm not sure if what I suspect is true," she said breathlessly; her arm was lost up to its elbow as she rummaged frantically within its depths searching for things unknown.

"What do you suspect, Molly?" Neville asked curiously. She didn't reply. The tip of her tongue poked out from one corner of her mouth; her eyes were screwed shut in concentration.

"Oh, where the devil did I put it? I thought it was underneath the … oh, wait a minute."

The other arm disappeared into the knapsack, and soon Halbarad's eyes rose in confusion, then astonishment, as Molly began pulling out objects that were clearly much too big for it: two large boxes of Wheezes, several books, the spare tent, a second broomstick (Neville blanched – he hoped she hadn't intended that for _him_), a large bottle with a bright green label marked 'Polyjuice Potion', several items of clothing (she blushed furiously when one delicate piece fell to the floor at Halbarad's feet, which the ranger – having no idea what it was - gallantly retrieved for her. Neville averted his gaze the minute he realised it was a pair of frilly knickers), a full set of crockery (with matching teacups), several loose forks and …

"A _camera_?" exclaimed the wizard in disbelief as he stared at the ancient brown apparatus she had just pulled from her bag.

"I did tell you I'd reorganised my supplies, dear," Molly said, ignoring his expression of utter disbelief and delving into the knapsack once more. "Oh, all this flying about has shifted everything around. I'll need to repack the lot! Wait … just a moment ... there! I've got it!"

With a triumphant grin, the homely witch extracted a vaguely familiar wide-brimmed silver bowl. Shoving the other objects aside, she sat it carefully on the table. Both men leaned forward for a closer look: it was inscribed with elvish runes and shot through with forest green and sky blue swirls. The rim was decorated in gold leaf.

Neville blinked. "Isn't that ..?"

"Galadriel's gift to me? Yes. And do you know -," she paused, lowering her voice for effect, "- I think it could very well be a Pensieve!"

He was gobsmacked. "A Pensieve? In Middle Earth? What would Galadriel need one of them for when she's got her Mirror? And where did she get it?"

"Well obviously she made it, dear, or had it made – look at the elvish letters on it!"

"How would she know how to make one? She's an elf."

"How difficult can it be to make a Pensieve? It's only a receptacle! And - difficult or not - Galadriel's the perfect person to try; she made that Mirror with her elf-magic didn't she? It was probably easier to make the Pensieve because we don't need it to show us the future or any such thing!"

"But how could she know - "

"Think, Neville dear! She _knew_ we were coming before we ever arrived in Lothlórien, and it wasn't because someone told her. I think she must have seen us in her Mirror long before that. If she did, then it's safe to assume she also saw that we would need something like this eventually. And she was right, wasn't she! Such a clever young lady. I mean, _old_ lady … oh, you know what I mean."

Molly was looking vastly pleased with herself. She pulled her wand from her skirt pocket and eyed Halbarad hopefully. "Shall we see if it works?"

It was the first time Neville had seen the man look truly uncomfortable. The ranger's eyes flickered nervously from Molly's wand to the bowl and back again. "My Lady?" he asked, tensing.

"I'm not sure, Molly," said Neville dubiously. "We don't even know if our magic's compatible with elf-magic."

Their manly companion relaxed, obviously relieved.

"It was compatible enough for Galadriel to send you a message in your dreams the last time we camped here," she retorted sensibly. Seeing that Neville had no response available, the Dúnedain captain tensed once more. Molly stared hopefully at him. "You don't mind, do you?"

"Mind? What ought I not to mind?"

"I just want to extract a memory of Dol Amroth from your head and put it in this bowl, then I can jump in and take a look around. That way, I'll have a clear picture of where we're going, and we'll all be able to get there much faster."

Halbarad paled. "You wish to take a memory from my _head_? With _that_?"

He pointed a shaky finger at her wand.

"Don't worry, dear!" said Molly with a fond chuckle. "It doesn't involve boring holes in your skull!"

She meant to reassure him; it didn't work. Halbarad's weathered features went ashen at the thought of her boring holes anywhere on his person.

Time to intercede.

"Why don't you practice on me first, Molly? That way we'll be able to see if it works and Halbarad can get some idea of the process involved?"

"Oh, all right, then. Now, concentrate on a memory we can use to show Halbarad. Something you don't mind sharing, that is."

Hmm. Something he didn't mind sharing. Okay. But what?

Neville glanced at the worried ranger and thought it would be best to recall a memory that would put his new friend at ease. Perhaps something from the Gryffindor common room? No. Too risky. What if Fred happened by? That might upset Molly terribly. Something from home, then? No! Too dangerous. What if Gran happened by? That might frighten Halbarad senseless.

Then what?

He rummaged through his mind trying to think of something pleasant. Suddenly he smiled.

"Okay. I'm ready."

Molly touched her wand to Neville's head; he felt no pain, but there was a slight tugging sensation on his temple as the witch pulled her wand back slowly. A fine silvery substance, neither gas nor liquid, wound itself around the tip of her wand and she transferred it onto the base of the bowl. Halbarad's eyes were the size of saucers.

"Didn't hurt a bit," Neville assured him with a smile.

"Of course it didn't!" exclaimed Molly bracingly. "Shall we all take a look?"

She took the ranger by the hand and tugged him toward the bowl. Neville followed suit.

"Now, if you'll just bend over it and let your face touch the memory itself, we'll soon be inside."

"Inside the bowl?" Halbarad eyed the silver-and-gold receptacle sceptically, clearly wondering how all three of them were going to fit inside it.

"Inside the _memory_," corrected the witch. "Don't worry, you'll be quite safe. It might seem a bit strange at first because it'll feel like you're actually there – wherever the memory is. But you won't be able to interact with it; you'll just be observing the events of the past." She smiled mischievously. "You never know, dear; we might just be about to witness Neville's first kiss!"

Neville's face burned in embarrassment. He'd rather flatten his cherished greenhouse than show them any such thing. Especially as his first kiss had been practised on a ratty old pillow back home (if that even counted) ... The dashing captain, on the other hand, had probably been _born_ to snog (like every other testosterone-fuelled male in Middle Earth) and Neville didn't want to ruin the man's opinion of him by letting Halbarad watch him almost choking to death on a mouthful of goose feathers (courtesy of a hole in said pillow).

"Have you ever done this before?" asked Molly suddenly, with a scrutinising glance at the teenager.

"What, kissed someone?" he asked distractedly. His Guardian rolled her eyes.

"No, dear. Focus! Have you ever been inside a Pensieve?"

Halbarad chuckled and Neville blushed again. "Er, no."

"When we first go in you'll both experience a sensation of falling. Don't worry, though: we'll all land safely. I'll go first, Halbarad can follow, and then you bring up the rear, Neville. Are you ready, boys?"

Grateful that she had forewarned them, the two men nodded. Satisfied, Molly bent down and touched her face to the surface of the swirling memory. Halbarad followed her example, and soon it was his turn. No sooner had his nose skimmed the contents of the bowl when he was falling, falling, falling …

Neville landed safely beside the others, feeling very relieved that he hadn't made a fool of himself by screaming like a girl all the way down. The trio had arrived on the Gryffindor side of the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch. Hundreds of students were seated all around the stands, bundled up in scarves and heavy coats. A light wind blew and the sky was patchy with clouds, though dazzling sunlight managed to burst through occasionally.

"It works," said Neville in awe as Molly herded them into seats next to Dennis Creevey and a whole troop of his second-year classmates.

"I don't know why you're so surprised," said the witch dryly. "Didn't I tell you it would work?"

No, actually. She had only supposed it would. Best not to point that out though.

"What is this place?" gasped Halbarad in astonishment as the shrill sound of a whistle blew and seven people in yellow-and-black, and seven in red-and-gold, took to the air on broomsticks. His dark head swung from side to side, tracking the players as they zoomed about in mid-air on broomsticks.

"It's the Quidditch pitch at my school," Neville informed him with a grin. The man's mouth was gaping widely. "This is the sixth year Quidditch match of Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff."

A memory he had specifically chosen because a) Fred and George had already left school and b) Halbarad might enjoy a chance to see am actual wizard sport.

"Quidditch match? What is a 'Quidditch match'?"

"It's a game wizards and witches play. Two teams of seven, each on broomsticks, trying to score more points than each other by hitting Quaffles – that's the large balls – through those hoops. A Seeker from each team -"

With Molly's help, he explained the rules of Quidditch to their dumbfounded companion, who was soon immersed in the game. It was an odd choice of match to be sure, given that his House had lost to Hufflepuff in the end, but Neville couldn't resist the chance of listening to Luna Lovegood's infamously inappropriate commentary without being worried about the outcome of the game.

"Oh, dear," the Ravenclaw announced dreamily when Cormac McLaggen inadvertently struck Harry with a Bludger. Molly gasped in fright as he tumbled to the ground. "The Gryffindor Keeper has just taken out his own Seeker."

Harry was saved from certain death by Madam Hooch, who hit him with a Floatation charm. A stretcher arrived within seconds and he was carted off to the hospital wing by Professor Flitwick.

"It seems a rather odd way to win the game, if you ask me," sighed Luna with a shake of her head. "Still, maybe it's all part of some daring new tactic to throw the opposition off guard. Oh, look; now the Keeper – what is his name? McDragon? ..."

"McLaggen! Cormac McLaggen!" shouted Professor McGonagall into the microphone as Neville dissolved into laughter.

Luna was oblivious. "Really? Whatever his name is, he's very full of himself, isn't he?" she said serenely. Halbarad was speechless with bemusement.

"And now the Keeper's being attacked by his own team members," continued Luna. "Serves him right, really, because I like Harry Potter. He's my friend. Pity the Gryffindor team is so distracted with beating McDragon senseless though, because Cadwallader of Hufflepuff is dangerously close to their goal … oh, eighty-forty to Hufflepuff!"

The rest of the game went past quickly as the Gryffindor team attempted to rally and put up some sort of defence, but with Harry gone (and an undaunted McLaggen shouting orders at them from the goalpost) they were hopelessly outmatched. The Hufflepuff team ratcheted up their score in record time, though Ginny managed to score another two goals before they were completely slaughtered.

"That was Ginny Weasley scoring again for Gryffindor, making it two hundred and fifty to … oh, look! Is it just me, or does anybody else think that that cloud looks remarkably like Professor Snape's nose?"

"Foul!" yelled Halbarad, who had found his voice and leapt from his seat when one of the Hufflepuff Beaters accidentally struck Demelza Robins in the face with his bat. Her nose exploded in a fountain of blood.

"It's not a foul, Halbarad. It wasn't deliberate," Neville informed him.

"'Twas a _most_ foul thing to do, to strike a maiden thus, whether by accident or nay!" cried the ranger, seething. "And he may count himself fortunate that he is not really here, else I would flay him for that!"

Trying hard not to laugh, Neville pulled the dark-haired man back into his seat. A few minutes later, the Hufflepuff Seeker caught the Snitch.

"Is the game over already?" said Luna, sounding very disappointed. "And I was having so much fun, too. Never mind, there's always next time."

"Not for you, there isn't!" barked Professor McGonagall, swiping the microphone from the bewildered Ravenclaw. Hufflepuff House's jubilant screams drowned out Luna's response.

"Time to go," Neville shouted, trying to be heard above the happy Hufflepuffs (and the grim Gryffindors).

It was a very reluctant Halbarad who rose and, together with witch and wizard, departed from Neville's memory.

"A most dangerous sport," was his pronouncement upon landing back in the living area of Molly's tent, "yet strangely fascinating. And most invigorating to watch."

Molly rolled her eyes. "Invigorating, indeed. Typical man! Harry might have been killed! Why anyone would want to play that game, I'll never know," she muttered, returning the Quidditch memory to its owner.

The two males exchanged a knowing grin.

Being satisfied that offering his memories for use in the elvish Pensieve would not involve any hideous stabbings of her wand into his brain, Halbarad readily complied to Molly's renewed request for a memory of Dol Amroth. He offered up three to give her a better idea of their destination. While she was exploring them, he and Neville discussed the upcoming journey, and the merits of Apparating a mile away from the city as opposed to appearing in the very court of its liege lord himself.

"I think it likely that Prince Imrahil and his men will either be strengthening the forces at Pelargir or marching to Minas Tirith in support of Denethor," said Halbarad thoughtfully, after draining his wine glass. "Which means he will have left the City in the care of Elphir – or one of his other sons, if Elphir has accompanied him."

"How many sons does he have?"

"Two more, Erchirion and Amrothos. I believe there is a daughter now also. Lothiriel. She must be only a few years older than yourself. I have not visited Dol Amroth for many years, so I cannot say for certain, but it is rumoured that the young lady is a great beauty."

A great beauty? Well, that was just fine with Neville! Especially as Éowyn was giving him the cold shoulder. Not that he didn't find women who played hard-to-get attractive, it would just be that much more convenient if Théoden's corking niece didn't play it quite so well.

He was beginning to wonder, though, if there were _any_ ugly people in Middle Earth. Truth be told, all these fine specimens of humanity (and other races) were beginning to make Neville feel about as attractive as a kick in the teeth. In fact the only people he compared well against, physically speaking, were the ruddy orcs. And possibly the Nazgûl, though it was hard to tell what they looked like under those dark cowls. He did _smell_ better than them, so that was a comfort. Oh, and Saruman was no oil painting either, although it had to be said that the multi-coloured wizard was trying his very, very best to look like one ...

Halbarad was describing Dol Amroth in some detail, and Neville thought he really should stop daydreaming and pay attention. The city itself, he learned, was based on a high promontory on the coast of the Bay of Belfalas overlooking an inlet called Cobas Haven. Sea-walls protected it from the waves in the windy bay, and within the city was a high tower, Tirith Aear, and the castle of the Princes of Dol Amroth. Neville was just about to learn a brief history of the ruling family when Molly returned from the Pensieve looking very satisfied with herself.

Holding her wand to the memories within, the witch collected them one by one, touched the tip of the wand to Halbarad's head and returned each of them back where they belonged.

"That's given me a very good idea of where we're going. How pretty it all is, all that sunshine and sand! All we have to do is decide which location to choose. Personally, I'm for the beach. I could do with a nice holiday." She was joking, of course, and they smiled for a moment before the mood grew sombre again.

"I believe the time for caution has passed, my Lady -"

"Molly, please."

"Erm, certainly, Molly. The time for caution has passed. We must act quickly to prepare the Gondorians for the extra forces Sauron will surely send their way. I suggest that after a few hours sleep to refresh ourselves, we use your magic to transport us to Imrahil's private office. That way we may alarm as few people as possible and thus be able to inform his sons privately of the increased danger to their realm."

It seemed like the wisest course of action to Neville. But one thing was bothering him.

"What about the horses? We can't Disapparate with them – the shock alone might kill them."

Not that he would be devastated if Fæleu dropped dead, but Halbarad might object to losing his (well-behaved) steed.

"It'll be easy enough to transport them with a Stunner," said his Guardian. "I'll take you and Halbarad first, and then come back for them."

Neville sincerely hoped that the Prince of Dol Amroth had a generously proportioned study (and a very healthy heart), because it would soon be crammed full with an extra three humans and two very large horses.

"Then the matter is settled. We must bid Théoden King farewell earlier than planned, and be gone ere dawn breaks. That will allow us four hours rest, and I suggest we make use of it. Molly, Neville, I bid you both pleasant dreams."

"You can share the bedroom, if you like," offered Neville, loathe to think of their companion resting outside in the cold. "There's an extra bunk bed available, so you'll be warm and comfortable."

The ranger smiled in thanks. "A generous offer, and I thank you for it, my young friend; but the night is clear and I would prefer to sleep under the stars. Fear not, I am well used to resting in all but the harshest of weathers, and I am well-prepared to see to my comfort. Goodnight."

Sleep under the stars when there was a nice warm _bed_ available? What did these Númenóreans have running through their veins? Lava? Crikey, they made him feel like a wimp. Or a Malfoy.

Same thing, really.

With a gallant bow in Molly's direction, the manly man slipped from the tent to seek his rest, leaving Neville feeling rather like a big girl's blouse.

**XXX**

Elphir of Dol Amroth sat before the pile of maps and reports which were strewn across his father's table in the Prince of Dol Amroth's main study. And he was exhausted. Not from lack of sleep, though he had seen little enough of that of late. No, his exhaustion stemmed more from the constant fear that his city would soon be overrun by enemies. The fear of this had meant increasing the patrols around the city and on the coast, and his younger brothers had partaken of these duties together with the Royal Guards. They had yet to return.

"Shall I fetch us some breakfast, my Lord? You have not eaten since yester-noon and I would welcome the opportunity to stretch my legs."

This enquiry from Minacil, one of the captains of the Swan Fleet, and temporary chief thereof whilst Eldanar, his superior officer, remained under Prince Imrahil's direct command. Elphir debated briefly before nodding.

"A good idea, my old friend. Perhaps it will help to restore some vigour and allow us to find a solution that will magic us out of imminent danger."

Only before Minacil would the eldest son of the prince ever relax enough to admit even the slightest of weaknesses. To all others, he remained as stalwart and mighty as his father. Yet even the strongest of men needed a port in a storm, something Minacil understood all too well. The tall captain grinned.

"I know not if it will magic us out of imminent danger, but it will at the very least prevent your wife from plaguing you to take better care of yourself. Only last night she pressed upon me a comb, some soap and three towels, and bade me tell you that if you insisted on locking yourself away from her, that you at least make yourself presentable for when you next show your face."

Ah. Yes. That sounded exactly like his beloved. Despite the abundance of willing servants to fetch and carry for her, she always went out of her way to tend to his basic needs personally. She reminded him so much of his dearly departed mother; so caring, so sweet-tempered. Perhaps that was why he had wed her (although the fact that she was fairer than a summer sunrise had certainly helped). Had he known that she was capable of consistently haranguing an entire company of Swan Knights and all the Guards of the Court simply in order to ensure his health and well-being … well, he might have chosen differently.

"I appreciate the swiftness with which you passed on her request," replied Elphir, meaning every word of it. If Minacil had bothered him with this last night …

The two men laughed, and Minacil departed for the kitchens, leaving Imrahil's eldest son to his gloomy thoughts.

It was difficult to escape the fact that the Dark Lord Sauron was on the rise again: the very increase and boldness of Corsair attacks on southern Belfalas and Lebennin were testament to that. Not four days since had their scouts reported that an enormous fleet of fifty great ships and several smaller ones were swiftly navigating their way up the Ethir Anduin, which meant they would have reached Pelargir two days ago. Falasher, lord of the coastal city, was a hardy warrior on land and a cunning rival at sea; yet he could only boast a fleet of five-and-thirty ships. Even were his forces to hold out against the assault on the city for several days, Pelargir would fall before the week was gone.

_Thump!_

He struck the table with his fist, sending a sheaf of parchments balanced near the edge flying to the floor. Frustration ate at him. His father had left for Minas Tirith yesterday morning with over seven hundred of their best knights, leaving Elphir with precious little resources to send aid to Falasher.

Not that he would be able to now, anyway, for Minacil had arrived an hour earlier with the very worst of news: just before dawn, a sharp-eyed sentry based in Harondor had spotted a further twenty ships sailing north from the Haven of Umbar. He had immediately despatched tidings to both Dol Amroth and Lebennin by means of the _dulinear_, sea-birds long used by coastal Gondorians to carry messages warning of imminent attack from Near Harad.

But where they were heading, none knew for certain. They were yet too far away, and it would be three or four days before their intentions were clear: stop at Linhir before joining the main fleet heading for Pelargir, or attack the coastal towns and cities – which would put every fishing village, as well as Dol Amroth itself, in serious danger.

Dol Amroth had but eighty knights of sound body and strength remaining to defend herself. True, they would find support from another five hundred men-at-arms gathered from settlements nearby, but those soldiers were either too long in the tooth to have accompanied his father on the long journey to Minas Tirith, or sported war wounds so grievous that it made their services all but redundant. How could a man fight with one arm? Or one leg? And who was left to see to the defence of Belfalas – the women?

The idea was so outrageous that he laughed, dropping his dark head in his hands and shaking it. There was a note of hysteria in his chuckles. Lothiriel had offered her services as an archer – indeed, his sister was the best marksman – nay, marks_woman_ - for fifty leagues – but it would do them no good if the city was overrun. There were simply not enough forces to protect Dol Amroth from this new threat. And what of the smaller towns and villages throughout Belfalas? If Linhir was captured, the Corsairs would control the South Road, the main thoroughfare in Belfalas. Supplies to and from Lamedon would be cut off, as would ease of passage to Minas Tirith and the lands in the north-east of Gondor.

Rising from the desk, Elphir walked past the beautiful seascape tapestries to the window and flung it open to view the real thing instead. The smell of salt hit his face and he breathed of it deeply. Opening his eyes he gazed at the endless waters beneath. Despite the danger of possible attack, a few hardy fishermen from the Cobas Haven had taken to the water in their small boats, determined to eke their living from the Bay of Belfalas while they still could.

But how long could it last?

"What we need is a wonder," he spoke aloud, fervently wishing that the Valar would hear his prayer and perhaps send Tulkas the warrior to aid them in their hour of need.

It was a fanciful dream, but little else. The Valar would never despatch one of their own kind simply to aid Men in their little skirmishes with Sauron. "Sweet Eru, have pity on us mere mortals. If Tulkas can aid us not, would it be too much to ask for at least one lowly Wizard?"

Barely had he spoken the words when a soft _pop_ alerted him to the fact that he was no longer alone.

"You rang, milord?"

A youthful baritone almost made Elphir jump out of his skin (which would have been most unfortunate, given his current proximity to an open window). He whirled around to find himself facing three strangers who had appeared as if from nowhere. The first, a brown-haired youth of slightly less than average height (for a Gondorian), sported a broad smile, and his face was heavily scarred at the right temple; two long, red scars tracked a path down his right cheek. He wore the most bizarre green-and-yellow striped tunic that Elphir had ever seen, and was no more than eighteen Winters (if that). Next to him, in a long dark cloak, a tall dark-haired man with weathered features and a full week's growth of beard staggered around the study clutching at his head. The boy steadied his companion and murmured something in his ear. Pinned to the man's left shoulder was a familiar-looking silver star.

Elphir inhaled sharply - a Ranger of the North! Here, in his father's study! His head spun, a feeling not aided by the presence of the third stranger: it was a woman. A very short woman with very red hair. She was clad in the most bizarre attire of all; a woollen hat with a woollen ball atop it, a rough woollen coat of strange design and varying hues, a _very_ short robe (it barely came to her shins), and a pair of bright red woollen _somethings_ which covered her legs. All three wore heavy boots of varying length.

"Who are you? And how did manage to pass the Guards unannounced?" he demanded.

"I'm Neville Longbottom, at your service and your family's. This is Halbarad, Ranger of the North," he indicated the rather bemused looking man (who was now feeling at his eyes) "and this is Molly Weasley."

"Hello, dear. I hope we didn't alarm you."

Alarm him? Hah!

"I ask again: who are you?"

The boy sighed. "I'd be the wizard you were just wishing for," he stated in his strange accent. "Not quite the same as the ones you're used to; I don't even come from Middle Earth. But I'm pretty effective all the same. And it's your lucky day, sir, because you got two for the price of one – Molly's a witch. And a ruddy good one, too."

The woman beamed in appreciation.

Before Elphir could challenge this statement (or laugh at it), the boy raised his right arm. In his hand was a short wooden stick, which he pointed at the nearest seascape. "_Introtabula moti._"

What the boy had said, Elphir hadn't the slightest idea; he had never heard the strange tongue before. As it was, the language the boy spoke was of minor importance compared to effect it had …

The tapestry hanging behind his father's desk – depicting a Swan fleet sailing south down the Bay of Belfalas – was _moving_!

Or rather, the images within it were moving. One or two clouds now floated lazily across the sky, the sea rolled gently under the summer sun, and the ships - with their blue-and-white banners streaming in the wind – _were sailing on the water._

_Nay! They had sailed beyond the edge of the tapestry itself and disappeared from view!_

"The fl... the … the flee..."

"They'll be on their way to the Umbar port, by the look of it. It is Umbar that's down that way, isn't it Halbarad?"

The boy looked questioningly at his male companion, who had recovered enough from his strange face-fondling affliction to nod.

Elphir's jaw hit the floor.

Misinterpreting his reaction, the youth hurriedly added, "Don't worry, they'll be back as soon as they realise Umbar's not actually there. At least I _think_ they will. They might very well drop anchor somewhere beneath the frame of the tapestry and stay there, if they're feeling rebellious."

_Drop anchor beneath the frame of the tapestry …_

Never before in his life had Elphir been quite so astonished. Not even when Erchirion, his younger brother, ran away from home (at a mere six years of age) to become a herdsman in Anfalas had he felt as stunned as he did now (fortunately Erchirion had made it no farther than Cobas Haven). Finding it difficult to simultaneously process events _and_ breathe, he staggered to his chair and dropped himself into it.

"A Wizard … and a Witch ... from beyond Middle Earth? … And a Ranger of the North ..."

"Oh, dear. We _have_ alarmed you, haven't we?" said the woman, dipping her hand into a strange-looking pack and producing (of all things) a pretty little patterned cup and saucer. She sat them on the desk before him and tapped the cup with a stick of her own. "If it's any consolation, I wanted to Apparate at the beach – it's so lovely! But I was overruled by the boys."

Elphir didn't hear a word she was saying – he was too amazed at the dark liquid pouring from the wooden stick she wielded.

"A nice cup of tea will have you feeling better in no time! Would you like milk with that? Let's add it anyway, shall we? By the looks of things you need it."

The flowing liquid changed colour from brown to white, and soon the cup was full. Satisfied the woman – nay, _witch!_ - stepped back.

"There. Get that down you and you'll soon feel much better." She smiled at him benevolently, putting Elphir so much in mind of his dear naneth that he obeyed her without question and took a sip of the tea, much to her delight.

And the lady had the right of it: after but a few sips he felt strangely refreshed.

"That's much better, dear! And now that I can see you're going to recover nicely, I'll just pop off and get the horses."

_Horses?_

She turned as if to head for the door, but vanished from sight instead. Elphir's jaw fell open and the pretty cup clattered noisily back into its saucer.

"Where did she ..?"

"It matters not, Elphir son of Imrahil. Lady Molly will return in due course and we have no more time to waste," said the dark-haired man, taking charge of the situation. "I am Halbarad of the Dúnedain, as my young friend has already said. You may recall I visited this fair City in your youth."

Elphir shook his head. He could not recall ever seeing the man in his life. Yet he was grateful for Halbarad's brisk manner; it was helping him to focus once again.

"Perhaps I ought not to be surprised: you were but a child. You had broken your arm in a fall at the time and spent much of my short visit in your quarters being tended by your mother. I met you but briefly at breakfast on the morning of my departure, where you expressed a desire to accompany me to Imladris that very day to meet Elrond, son of Eärendil the Mariner."

A vague memory tugged at Elphir's consciousness. "You said my mother would be loathe to part from her brave boy so soon after his recovery, but that you would pass my sincerest felicitations to Master Elrond as soon as you returned to Imladris."

And he had, too. Lord Elrond had sent him a slim volume of poetry about the sea not long afterwards. It had long been one of Elphir's most cherished possessions.

"I remember now. Well met again, Halbarad of the Dúnedain. What brings you south in these evil times, and in such a strange fashion."

"War brings me here, son of Imrahil. We have come to aid you in your time of need. The southern fiefdoms of Gondor may be in grave danger."

"In war we are all in danger."

"Yet some more than others. We know of the fleet of Corsair ships that have taken Pelargir."

Elphir was simultaneously shocked and dismayed. If the Corsairs had prevailed already, then Falasher was dead, or as good as. "How is it you know of this?"

"Isildur's heir saw it in one of the lost Seeing Stones."

"Isildur's heir?" cried Elphir, straightening in his chair. "Can this be true?"

The young wizard answered. "Yeah, it's true. Isildur's heir, Aragorn son of Arathorn, Strider – he's got a whole string of names, but it's all the same man. He's even got the Sword-That-Used-To-Be-Stuffed, or whatever it was called – it's been fixed and now it's called Andúril, thank Merlin. Much snappier name. I know what I'm talking about: Molly and I have been travelling with him for weeks. He's a top bloke, apart from his really twisted sense of humour. You'd like him."

It was as if legends were suddenly springing to life: Dúnedain, Isildur's heir, the Sword Reforged, wizards and witches rushing in to provide aid only dreamed of …

"What you may not know, Elphir, is that we believe more of Sauron's allies may be on their way to the Bay of Belfalas as we speak. It is imperative that we stop them from reaching the Anduin or attacking the coastal cities."

"I am already aware of this. Word has been sent from Harondor that a further fleet of twenty ships is bound north as we speak. But their destination was not clear until this moment. The Anduin, you say?"

"Yes," said Neville. "That's my fault, I'm afraid. I had a little ...erm ... _altercation_ with Sauron and now he thinks I've got five thousand men sailing up the river to storm Mordor. Which means he's sending his troops up and down the Anduin looking for them. Which means you lot are in more danger than you should be. I'm really sorry about that, sir, but I'm here to fix it."

So, the boy was responsible for the added danger his city now found itself in?

"I should have you thrown in the dungeons for that, young Wizard," said Elphir, affecting a grave voice. He had absolutely no intention of doing so, of course, but it was amusing to watch his reaction.

The boy-wizard froze; Halbarad set his jaw angrily and moved to object, but Elphir stilled him with a raised hand.

"Forgive me, my friends. It has been a long night and a strenuous morn. Allow me to relieve the tension with a harmless jest. You need not fear, Neville Longbottom. If you and your companions come to correct an error you made in the heat of the moment, who am I to refuse your assistance? Eru knows we need all the help we can get – with or without the threat of an additional Corsair fleet. I accept your both apology and your offer of aid."

Could it be true? Elphir wondered as the boy sagged in relief. Was the answer really that simple? He had only to ask the Valar for help, and they sent it?

_Instantly?_

Elphir twisted his head to glance at the wall behind him: the lost Swan fleet had returned and was now sailing happily towards the other side of the tapestry. It was magic.

Magic! The boy was a wizard! The homely lady a witch! Dol Amroth had been blessed with _two Istari!_

A feeling of relief swept him then, so intense it left him feeling almost euphoric. Praise the Valar, his prayers had been answered! He would not question how, or why, he would simply accept it and be grateful.

At that precise moment, the door swung open: Minacil had returned from his forage in the kitchens. His eyes widened in surprise at the two visitors, but not wide as those of the guards who had been standing watch outside the heavy door.

"My Lord!" cried one, rushing into the study with hand on sword. "I do not understand -"

Neither did Elphir, truth be told. He had wished for a wizard and lo and behold! Wish granted. More than granted, in fact.

"Peace, Celebril, all is well," he said, gesturing for the guard to retreat. Celebril hesitated, but a nod from his liege lord made him retreat. The door closed behind a very bemused Minacil.

"Have I missed aught?"

"Perhaps you ought to sit down, my friend. It seems we may have found a solution to magic us out of immediate danger after all."

Barely had he spoken when _pop!_ The witch, Molly, returned.

_With a horse in tow!_

Minacil shrieked like a maiden and dropped his tray. Elphir, with a full five minutes more experience of this strange magic than his captain, simply grinned.

"I'm so sorry, dears! Didn't mean to startle you. Let me just lift this Stunner so we can get Halbarad's horse out of here. It's a good thing I didn't bring both of them at the same time; it's getting a bit cramped in here!"

Indeed it was: the young wizard – Neville - and Halbarad the ranger had backed toward the north wall. Minacil had thrown himself on the settle out the way. The horse – strangely still and silent – now commanded the best part of the room.

The door to the study flew open again; Celebril was back.

"My Lord -"

The guard stopped, speechless, when he saw the new additions.

"Oh, lovely. You can take Halbarad's horse to the stables," declared the Lady Molly, tapping the horse twice. The poor creature suddenly came to its senses, took one glance around, and promptly reared in fright.

"Aargh!" cried Minacil as a steaming fresh pat landed on his clean blue cloak. Halbarad covered the distance to his whinnying mount in two long strides and calmed her enough to stop her dangerous flailing. Placing a hand on her muzzle, he whispered soft elvish words that soothed her further.

"Forgive me, Molly," he apologised to the flame-haired witch, who had sprung backwards into a terrified Celebril in her fright. "I ought to have forewarned both horses of the impending change of environment ere we left."

"Where … where did … I do not understand, my Lord ..." spluttered the traumatised guard.

"Fear not, Celebril, all will become clear soon. For the moment, please see that the beast is stabled and well cared for. And send someone else to the study in -"

He looked to Molly.

"Five minutes."

"- in five minutes for the other one."

"The _other _one?"

"That is what I said." Elphir indicated the tall brown mare with a nod of his head. "The horse, if you please."

Taking the reins from Halbarad, Celebril cautiously led the skittish horse from Prince Imrahil's study.

"If you have no objections, Lord Elphir, I will leave with the Lady Molly to prepare Neville's steed. I would spare her the alarm experienced by Vorondwen. Neville will relate to you all you need to know, and when I return we may work together on a strategy to thwart our enemies."

Wasting no time waiting for a response, Halbarad took a deep breath and closed his fingers around the witch's waiting arm. They disappeared with a soft _pop!_

Despite the pungent smell of horse poo (and Minacil's cries of utter disgust), it was a very heartened Elphir who waved his hand at the vacant chair before his father's desk. "Come, Neville Longbottom; be seated and tell me what happy circumstance brings you and the Lady Molly from beyond the bounds of Middle Earth to our aid."

And that is precisely what the boy did.

Yet unknown to them both, at that very moment an evil force was at work in the North that might put the boy's life – and the very existence of them all – in such peril that no amount of magic may aid them ...

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

Introtabula moti – cobbled together Latin for 'inside picture move'.

Vorondwen – cobbled together elvish (probably grelvish) for 'faithful lady'.

_Author's Note_: Another cliffy! And the longest chapter in a while! Yippee. Facets of this story long in the making are finally coming into play ...

For those of you who may wonder why Halbarad has not revealed Augusta's presence to Neville or Molly, it's because - after the chat he had with Gandalf in Isengard - Aragorn will have bade him not to. Plus it would completely ruin my fun!

Let me apologise to those of you who left reviews for the previous chapter that I have yet to reply to. I've been concentrating so hard on psyching myself up for, then writing, this chapter, that I didn't trust myself to become distracted. But now that I've got this chapter up, I'll answer them tomorrow.

Thanks for reading (and hopefully reviewing),

Kara's Aunty ;)


	36. A Dastardly Plot

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. and Lord of the Rings and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

**Credit: **Tuckborough dot net

**Not Quite A Maia**

**Chapter 36**

_Tower of Orthanc, Isengard_

_Third Age: 5th-8th March 3019_

Saruman the Fallen crawled from the balcony back into the main hall of his tower, defeated by the very wizard he had forced to his death in Moria. A clang sounded from behind him and, worried that the red-haired hellion that passed herself off as a witch had decided to carry out her promise and interfere with his abused bits (again), he peered frantically through the glass. He fully expected to see her dismount her unnatural steed and come charging through the windows with staff poised, ready to curse him into eternal misery. Thankfully the coast was clear.

Kicking the balcony doors closed behind him, he began vociferously cursing his newly reduced status and all those who had partaken in his downfall.

That boy and his protectress had robbed him of his dignity! The Rohirrim and their unkempt allies had robbed him of his victory. And Gandalf - who should by all rights be about as animate as a hill - stood larger than life at Saruman's front door!

_And had the nerve to defrock the Lord of Isengard of his mighty powers!_

By Sauron's burning eyeball! Why would not the dead remain dead?

Picking himself off the floor, the furious wizard began to pace it, nursing his right hand all the while. It was still throbbing from the shock it received when his staff shattered.

An unpleasant growl rumbled deep in his chest. He had suspected, if not known, that a Balrog lurked in the depths of Khazad-dûm, and it should have spelled the end of that meddlesome Gandalf, but no! The Grey Wizard had been delivered from the jaws of darkness by the Valar themselves. And if that was not bad enough, they had stripped Saruman from his lofty position as Head of the Order and bestowed it upon that ridiculous pipesmoke-riddled hobbit-hugger instead.

Gandalf the _White_, indeed! Curse him! Curse them all!

Humiliation coursed through the former Istar's veins like the very fires of Mordor as his mind replayed the scene with his former ally. To be brought so low by the biggest buffoon in Arda (apart from Radagast)! To be castigated and cast out of the Order of the Maiar - and in front of such witnesses! Théoden (who looked surprisingly youthful and chipper), the upstart ranger (who would never be king), the raging Red Witch (*%*!) and that boy!

_That boy!_

Longbottom junior's words echoed through Saruman's mind.

_"You're a liar and a murderer ... There's nothing superior about you!"_

The fallen wizard clenched his fists in anger.

Liar? Saruman the White was no liar! He was a noble man of supreme honour who had merely … erm … fibbed? No, not fibbed. Who had merely _withheld the truth from his foes_. Yes, that was it. And withholding the truth from ones foes was wisdom, not lies. As for the charge of murder? Not guilty, m'lord! Slaying the enemy was not murder - it was self-defence!

Technically speaking, said enemy had not actually raised arms against him _before_ he had started to slay them, but that was beside the point. Was it Saruman's fault that he had anticipated their aggression and thus made the first strike in his own defence? No! Was it Saruman's fault that the Rohirrim would not conveniently die en masse, allowing him free reign to take up lordship of their lands? No! And was it Saruman's fault that, in the absence of the voluntary and collective deaths of an entire nation, he had had to resort to illicit means to undermine their king's authority or dispose of their prince?

No! Saruman had simply been ... pro-active.

Ahem.

Yet that blasted boy had unjustly accused him before his enemies and added insult to injury by disrobing him before their very eyes so that everyone might delight in his unfortunate afflictions!

Neville and Molly's gleeful shouts rang through his ears, compounded by the hateful laughter of the Rohirrim and their new allies.

"… _he's suffering from his monthly malady!"_

_"Sarumanna, the pre-menstrual Maia!"_

How _dare_ they reduce him to a figure of mockery! How dare they scorn him thus! He would make them pay. He would curse them with _all_ the power of Isengard: the boy, the witch, the Rohirrim, the ranger, the elf, the dwarf, the halflings and …

The growl began to crawl from his chest to the back of Saruman's throat as he recalled that he would be completely unable to curse any of his intended victims ever again because Isengard had no power left. Gandalf had taken care of that when he shattered Saruman's staff.

Bah! Curse the Valar! Gandalf the White, indeed! Gandalf the Fool, more like! Mithrandir was welcome to headship of the Order for all the good it would do him now. The power of that useless bastion was waning even as that of Mordor rose and if Gandalf had not the wits nor the cunning to reach out and grasp true power when he saw it, like he, Saruman, had planned to, then more fool him!

Thoughts of Mordor led to the realisation that Sauron would soon discover the master of Orthanc had utterly failed to secure the victory he had so recently claimed would be theirs …

Sauron would not be pleased.

And Saruman now lacked the power to contend with his displeasure.

Oh dear.

The unfamiliar - and very unwelcome - sensation of trepidation suddenly overcame the fallen Maia and a deep chill swept through his (curvaceous) body. He crossed his arms over his chest in a futile attempt to warm himself, but they were impeded by two massive pea-green globes. Hissing in frustration, he stormed across the chamber and yanked from his throne the spare robe he had discarded earlier in favour of the more voluminous one he had greeted his 'guests' in (for all the good it had done him). After donning it, Saruman threw himself onto the throne, rested his green chin in his hand and mulled over the next course of action.

How would he face Sauron now? Or explain that Mithrandir was not quite as deceased as he had previously claimed? How could he, Saruman, possibly couch his resounding defeat in such terms as to make it sound inevitable despite all his careful planning?

Hmm. A puzzle indeed. Perhaps he could blame his defeat on poor intelligence from Wormtongue? No. Sauron would view him as a feeble-minded fool who could not control his underlings, and there was nothing more certain to secure him swift passage to the dungeons of Barad-dúr than such an obvious show of weakness.

Then perhaps the fault could be laid at the feet of the foreign Istari and their strange magicks?

An interesting thought. It would be an easy enough lie because Sauron had never seen them first-hand and had no real idea of the scope of their abilities. In fact the only thing Sauron did know was that it was within their powers to slay the dreaded Nazgûl (and mutilate innocent wizards beyond recognition). These were no mean feats, and Saruman knew that the Dark Lord was deeply concerned by them, whether he admitted it or nay. So such a claim might not even be far from the truth.

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he explored the possibility.

Wormtongue had made no report of Gandalf appearing in Edoras before his self-imposed exile; the oily advisor only mentioned the appearance of the rag-tag remnants of the ill-fated Fellowship and their irritating Istari friends. Nor had Grima mentioned spotting the wizard during his flight to Orthanc. So it was safe to assume that Helm's Deep had not known victory due to the aid of Gandalf: it had prevailed with the aid of the witch and the boy. They were the real threats.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

It would be easy enough to concoct a believable story that Longbottom and the witch had used their strange magicks to mask the true might of Théoden's army - an army that had easily quashed ten thousand orcs and was now more than likely on its way to aid Gondor in her fight against Sauron's attack.

With the wizard-boy and his deranged protectress leading the charge …

Yes. Yes, that might very well work. If the Dark Lord was rattled by the presence of the foreign Istari, then he would shudder at the thought of them, and the newly reincarnated Gandalf, leading a massive force of angry blonds to thwart his attack on Gondor. All Saruman need do was work on the finer details and make it seem like a timely warning for his ally to redouble his forces. Sauron might even be grateful. Yes, that seemed the best course of action under the circumstances.

And one to be undertaken in all possible haste, because if Mordor learned of Isengard's defeat from another source before Saruman had the chance to explain himself, he might not be able to manipulate the Dark Lord to his advantage.

If he could even do that any more, now that his staff was broken.

Saruman flexed his right hand and smarted at the loss of his greatest weapon. Curse that meddling hobbit-hugger! He would have to work doubly hard to convince Sauron that he was still a worthy ally now that he had been defrocked of his magic, for the Dark Lord would certainly sense it the moment Saruman summoned him through the Seeing Stone! As it was, Sauron might be decidedly less keen to treat with him now that he possessed about as much power as a stiff breeze. The Dark Lord might even try to replace him with one of his trusted lieutenants.

The thought of the Witchking of Angmar or the Mouth of Sauron lording it over his domain while he was relegated to the rank of servant (or worse) made him seethe. Wizard or nay, Saruman was still a force to be reckoned with, and if Sauron dared to supplant him … Well, little did Sauron know that Saruman still had a trick or two up his sleeves.

He cast an evil glare at the balcony, knowing that Gandalf and his miserable cohorts were probably still gloating over his fall from power and loathing them all for reducing him to his current sorry state. Deciding that it was to his own advantage to communicate the bad news to Sauron as swiftly as possible, Saruman rose quickly and moved toward the chamber which housed the Palantír.

Which was when he discovered the door was ajar.

"What the …"

The words caught in his throat as a sudden thought struck him.

"Wormtongue!"

Grima had dared to enter his chambers uninvited - and was very likely informing the Dark Lord of all that had just passed!

Rage and fear gripped Saruman as he dashed into the smaller room. Luckily for him, Grima was not there.

Unluckily for him, neither was the Palantír.

Had the worm actually secreted it away whilst Saruman was parlaying with his enemies? Whisked it upstairs to the privacy of his quarters so he could betray his master and find favour with Sauron instead?

How dare he! Grima would pay for this treachery!

Incensed, Saruman stormed back into the main chamber and was just about to thunder upstairs when his eye caught the balcony.

Grima's chambers were upstairs. The Palantír was missing. The balcony. The clang …

Cold eyes widened in horror.

He flew to the balcony doors and peered through them. Below were the hated figures of his enemies, though they were moving swiftly towards a rock a short distance away. A curly head hung over the crook of Gandalf's arm as the wizard dashed ahead and Saruman quickly identified it as one of the halflings; no other was small enough to be carried in such a manner. A taller form - the Longbottom boy - was floating not far behind followed by the red-haired witch and the rest of his company.

Except one. The ranger was crouching in the muddy water; his arms, extended beneath the surface, were moving in wide circles. Suddenly he stopped and tugged at something. Saruman watched impotently as from beneath the filthy pool there emerged …

… the Palantír of Orthanc!

Isildur's cursed heir held it up triumphantly then bundled it up quickly in his cloak before following his friends.

Dismay and hatred both collided in his heart as Saruman realised what this meant: his connection to Sauron was lost to him. He had missed the chance to inform Mordor himself of Gandalf's return, of Rohan's victory, and thus he had lost the opportunity to improve his miserable position.

"_Wormtongue!"_

With a jerk of his hands Saruman yanked at his robes and dashed out the hall. Up the winding stairs he stormed, yelling "Wormtongue!" at the top of his lungs and looking for all the world like an elderly green wife rushing to castigate her philandering spouse. Two flights up, he crashed through the chamber door of his now very unwelcome guest and, spotting the greasy-haired former counsellor quivering nervously by the window, lunged at him in fury.

"You fool!" he yelled, grabbing a handful of Grima's lanky hair and pushing his face to the glass. "Do you see what you have done? You have surrendered my only link to the Dark Lord to the Enemy! Squandered my chance to maintain some semblance of power - and for what? To make a dent in someone's head? Or did you mean to aim for the steps? Either way you missed! Gandalf lives! If I am not able to kill him then you will have decidedly less fortune in the same endeavour! Did your eyes not reveal to you the presence of the Wizard-boy or the Witch? Did you truly think your pathetic act would meet with success while they are present to protect him with their confounded arts?"

Wormtongue was fully unable to answer; his mouth was pressed so firmly against the window that one would be forgiven for thinking he was deeply enamoured of it. Only his left hand grappling behind his neck to release his host's fierce grip proved otherwise. Disgusted, Saruman released him and opted instead to glower at Wormtongue mercilessly.

"I should slay you for this treachery," he hissed angrily. Grima cowered against the wall, rubbing his bruised lips with his one good hand. The silent advisor's watery eyes were wide with fright and, if the wizard wasn't much mistaken, he was whimpering in fear at his master's wrath. Not that Saruman could be entirely sure: Grima had been fully unable to utter a word since his arrival in Orthanc so he might just as well have been calling for his mama.

Sneering at him in disgust, the former wizard whirled around and stormed away. Wormtongue wasn't worth the energy it would take to dispose of him. Not yet. Pathetic or not, the man may still prove useful. Indeed, despite his silence and the broken arm, he had still been able to provide valuable intelligence.

It was with a very smug curl of the lip that Saruman thought back to the early hours of that morning when Grima had arrived. Speechless the fool may have been, and broken his writing arm was, but – unknown to Théoden - Grima was still capable of writing with his_ left _hand – a skill which had proved valuable when sending secret messages about Rohan's defences from the Golden Hall to Isengard because none would have recognised the traitorous counsellor's script and thus endangered his position as Saruman's spy.

He chuckled in dark delight, recalling the intelligence his informant had been able to reveal. Rohan may have enjoyed the benefit of the Longbottom boy's aid, but Gondor would not.

Not if he could help it.

Saruman ascended the stairwell to the next floor of the Tower. He crossed the marble landing and stopped at the third door down the hallway. It was hidden from view by a tall statue of one of the many long forgotten Gondorian chieftains who had ruled Orthanc in the Second Age, when Rohan was yet known as Calenardhon. Dipping a hand into his pocket, he withdrew keys from his robe and selected the necessary one before slipping it into the lock and turning it. Opening the door, he moved inside and swiftly closed it behind him.

The room itself was of a generous size, boasting a high roof and, not one, but two tall windows at either end of the curved wall through which light spilled. It gave the room a wonderfully bright and airy feel. In the past it had been used as a chamber for one of the many learned men who had lived in Orthanc and who spent their days gazing at the stars from the pinnacle of the Tower. But long gone were the years when one could while away the hours in such leisurely pursuits, and long gone too the comfortable bed and furnishings once housed in the gleaming chamber. It was empty now but for a sole rectangular trough, several metres long, which stood at the midpoint between the two windows. Saruman had had it removed from one of the lower storage vaults by Borgalak and installed in the room that very morning after reading Grima's report.

Advancing on the trough, he stopped at its edge and gazed at the contents within. Defrocked he may now be, but Gandalf had not managed the task before Saruman had set the wheels of vengeance in motion. Oh, yes. He had known as soon as the cursed Ents had torn down the walls of Isengard that he must act quickly; that it was but a matter of time until his enemies came to crow at his misfortune. But he had not known _how_ to act against them until Grima had arrived and revealed his secrets. Perhaps it was chance that had spurred him into what had turned out to be his final act of magic then, or perhaps it was the niggling sense of doom which had been bothering him ever since he clapped eyes on the Longbottom hag (curse her!).

Either way, this lowly trough may very well yield his last – and greatest - act of revenge upon the People of the West.

And the boy himself was the key to Saruman's plot; his incapacitation would be a blow to Gandalf's plans, and it would also deprive his former friend the aid of both foreign witches, so desperate would they be in their endeavours to cure him. And if the boy perished?

All the better!

Saruman's sneer widened as he admired his latest work of art. The trough itself was situated at the exact point where it would benefit most from the light spilling through the windows. Contained within it was earth, almost three feet in depth, and it was punctuated at regular intervals by tiny green shoots.

The infant plants all looked very innocent to the casual observer, but those green shoots were anything but, as the young wizard would soon discover to his detriment. They would yield the very seeds of his doom! Skilled the boy may be with his staff, but he was a novice in the art of cunning.

According to Wormtongue, the boy's magic had incapacitated him in Théoden's court, leaving him sprawled upon the dais and completely unable to move or speak.

Yet Grima had still been able to _listen._

And that is exactly what the humiliated counsellor had done when the boy had spoken to the elf of his hopes and dreams. Foolish child! So secure in his victory that he had allowed his tongue to wander unchecked! Divulging personal information when a known foe was within earshot!

But the boy's arrogance would be his downfall!

Not that Grima had had any idea of how useful the boy's information had been: in fact, when Saruman had first read the report, even _he_ had not realised how valuable it was. But now …

"So you are a lover of plants, boy? Then let us see if these beauties may win your affection as quickly as I hope they shall."

He fingered one of the delicate shoots which the last of his magic was causing to grow at an accelerated rate. In two days time, they ought to be ready to yield their first crop of seeds. And then …

Laughter rumbled in his chest and Saruman marvelled at his own ingenuity. His short duel with the child at Fangorn might not have been too pleasant for _him,_ but it would turn out to have _very_ unpleasant consequences for the boy-wizard in the end because it had allowed Saruman to get a sample of his enemy's magical signature. Traces of it had settled on his cloak when the boy had used his rebounding spell against him. Not much, to be sure – but enough for Saruman to create a weapon that would hone in on his enemy's magic and render it useless.

The seedlings of these plants – which he called _Longbottom's Bane_ – were specifically designed to rob the boy of his arts. Once dropped onto the earth, they would sink beneath it and mature within minutes, if Saruman's incantations had done their work properly. Using the traces of Longbottom's magic bound within their essence, they would take a form guaranteed to please the insolent youth. From thence, it was a mere matter of the boy touching them - which he would, plant-lover that he was. The spell upon them was such that he – and he alone - would not be able to resist their allure.

And then …

A feeling of almost giddy delight filled him as he pictured the devastated faces of kin, guardian and most especially Gandalf. With three Istari down, who then would be left to assist the new White Wizard and his rag-tag Fellowship in their fight against the Dark Lord?

All Saruman had to do now was devise a way of bringing boy and seeds together.

And this was where his plan hit its first snag: how to accomplish a meeting between the gardener wizard and his leafy doom? Saruman had no idea where Gandalf may lead the boy when they departed what remained of Isengard; he could only guess that the youth would end up at Minas Tirith eventually. But when? He knew the Dark Lord was mobilising his army at that moment, but he could not say for certain when the battle for Gondor would begin. In the next few days? A week at most, surely? Either way, if his suspicions were correct, the seedlings would then have to be delivered to Gondor's capital city as soon as possible.

And there was the next problem: how to ensure they got there in the first place? Most of his remaining servants had perished in the battle with the Ents and those that survived had fled. The cowards! There were none left to send to Minas Tirith with a pack of magically poisoned seedlings, unless he considered sending Grima. Alas, but that was something he could not do now that the counsellor's treachery had been so effectively unmasked; Grima wouldn't last five minutes once he crossed the Gap of Rohan - even if the Ents _would_ let him make it out the front door without flattening him.

Frustrated, Saruman stormed to one of the windows and looked out at the ruined court beneath. Several yards from the door to Orthanc he spotted Gandalf leaning over the boy, who – together with the halfling – had recovered his wits and was talking animatedly with his friends.

Curiosity piqued him. What had happened to the pair in the first place? Had Grima's poor aim with the Palantír struck one, or both of them instead? Nay, a strike from the Seeing Stone at that height would have proved fatal. Had they simply fainted?

Bah! What did it matter? Whatever had befallen the troublesome duo, they were clearly (and unfortunately) recovered now. All that remained was for them to raise themselves up and take flight from his land as soon as possible – they and their friends both!

Wait a minute …_ flight …_

That was the answer to his first dilemma: if the seedlings could not be despatched to Gondor by man or orc, they could still be carried by birds.

The crebain! Luckily, Saruman did not need magic to control them, he had only ever needed the power of his Voice! Not that they had ever been difficult to persuade anyway, dark creatures that they were.

Pleased that one problem had been so neatly solved, Saruman spent a few minutes debating whether he should despatch the birds to Minas Tirith as soon as the plants were ready. But no, the Gondorians might wonder at the evil birds and their mischief. What if, after the crebain had strewn the seedlings over the city, they swept up all evidence of his hard work and destroyed it? No. Patience was called for. In fact, it might be best to start having the boy discreetly followed by one or two of the birds; that way, Saruman would know exactly where he was at all times and be able to attack him _wherever_ he was. Yes. He may not even have to wait until the young wizard reached Minas Tirith at all; he might well be able to dispose of him long before then, which would leave Gandalf without his aid far earlier than planned.

It was a pleasing prospect but for one tiny hitch: he had already despatched the crebain to look for the Longbottom hag and he had no idea when they might return. They could be gone for days.

Hmm. It seemed that Saruman would have to cultivate more than plants if he wanted his plan to work: patience was also called for.

The other major wrinkle in his dastardly plot was that, though he had worked the majority of the required magic to create the seedlings, he was required to wait until the mother crop matured to perform the final incantation which would seal the curse on them.

Something that was now beyond his power. _Literally._

Still, even without the sealing spell, the seedlings should be able to a lot of harm; enough to seriously incapacitate the boy, unless he bore some sort of magical talisman upon him. And why would he need that when he had his rabid guardian and that thrice-cursed grandmother of his to protect him?

The thought of the hag made him glower in the boy's direction: the sooner he was rid of the troublesome Longbottom duo and the deranged protectress, the better!

Movement outside caught his attention. Abandoning his thoughts for the moment, Saruman quirked an eyebrow as Gandalf mounted his snowy horse and rode off with one of the halflings seated before him.

What was this then? Why was Gandalf leaving with that particular halfling before everyone else? What was so special about …

A horrible thought caused his stomach to sink.

Was the halfling the Ring-bearer? Had the One Ring been in Isengard _all this time_ and now his former friend was spiriting it away out of Saruman's reach forever?

So tantalisingly near, yet so horribly far away!

He gripped the windowsill in rage. Curse that interfering hobbit-hugger and all who paid him heed!

A few minutes later, the boy, the witch, the ranger and their Rohirrim companions mounted their steeds and disappeared through the same stone archway leading to the main courtyard. Soon they were lost from sight, leaving Saruman to glower at nothing more than the rock they had occupied minutes before.

With a snarl he whirled around, crossed back to the trough, and gave the contents one final appraising glance. The mother plants would be ready in but two days and from them he would gather his precious seedlings; this gave him forty-eight hours in which to set the wheels of his final revenge in motion. The thought of imminent action against his foes calmed him considerably and soon a slow smirk made its way across his wrinkled face.

What did it really matter if Gandalf had won this battle? One battle meant not a war! Let him enjoy his victory for the moment. Let them all enjoy it, for it would be the last victory any of them would ever know.

Because – wizard or nay – it was a war in which Saruman the Ingenious would prevail over his enemies!

Laughing, he swept from the chamber and slammed the door behind him.

**XXX**

_Three days later_

Saruman sat on his throne in the Great Hall, a glass of Dorwinion wine in his hand and a pouch full of _Longbottom's Bane_ in the pocket of his robe. Every now and then he would pat it, finding the seedlings' comforting weight reassuring, and it was with great pleasure that he whiled away the hours until the crebains' return thinking of the havoc they would wreak upon his enemies.

Such was his pleasure that he didn't initially object when a repentant Grima finally surfaced from his chamber that morning and proceeded to shadow him around the Tower like a lapdog, quill and parchment in his one good hand. Now the outcast man of Rohan stood at his side, occasionally trusting himself to write his thoughts down and pass them for inspection. Already he had tried to convince Saruman to send Borgalak to Rohan to kidnap the White Lady.

"Do not be so foolish, Wormtongue!" he snapped for the umpteenth time. "How often must I explain that none may leave the Tower without fear of being squashed?"

Not that a squashed Borgalak would have bothered him, were he not Saruman's only remaining servant. As it was, the uruk was not only Orthanc's first (and sole) line of defence against renewed attack from the Ents, he was also its recently appointed head chef and Arda's ugliest ever chambermaid-cum-laundress.

Grima passed him another piece of parchment.

_My Lord, _the counsellor wrote,_ the Longbottom boy is smitten with Theoden's niece; I saw this myself when he arrived. If we could but devise a way to secret the Uruk from the Tower, we could secure her and thus ensure his immediate return to Orthanc._

Saruman tossed the parchment aside and, completely fed up with it all, turned a hostile glower on the man.

"Do you take me for a half-wit? Have I not told you that none may leave Orthanc? Fangorn would launch himself at the Uruk before he got so much as two feet from the door. And do you forget that there is _only one exit?_" he snarled angrily. Grima backed away from the dais as Saruman rose and advanced on him. The former wizard's good humour had vanished and his face was now purple with rage. "Pray tell me, Wormtongue, how else we might secret Borgalak from the Tower without the Ents noticing? Perhaps you think we may launch him from the Pinnacle itself in the hope that he learns to fly before he smashes upon the ground below? Fool!"

In his haste to get as far away from Saruman as quickly as possible, Wormtongue tripped over the hem of his robe and crashed to the ground. He landed heavily on his broken right arm and his mouth opened in a silent scream of agony. Saruman came to a halt at his feet and glared down at him in disgust.

"It would be most convenient for you to have this chit of a girl taken captive and held hostage in Orthanc while the boy endeavours to save her, would it not? Do not think that your thoughts are safe from me, Wormtongue! You hope to garner my favour with a plan to set a trap for Longbottom, but it is your own interests that you are ultimately thinking of. I know you desire the girl for yourself! Was she not the price for your betrayal?"

The sight of the snivelling worm filled him with such disgust that Saruman aimed a solitary kick at his midriff before leaving him to bawl (silently) on the floor. He returned to the dais in a swish of robes, downed his wine, then poured himself another glass.

Barely had he lowered himself upon his throne when the great doors to the Hall crashed open, admitting Borgalak the handyorc to the chamber.

"What is the meaning of this?" snapped Saruman angrily. Oddly, his tone did not cow the uruk.

"Me Lord! Nazgûl approaching from the East. Should arrive within the 'alf-hour!"

Alarmed, Saruman laid his glass aside. It was not unexpected for Sauron to have despatched a messenger to Orthanc; in fact, it was a regular occurrence. But if the Dark Lord had sent one because he thought the master of the Tower was ignoring his hails through the Palantír …

He swallowed hard, willing himself not to panic; such a reaction would be of no viable help to him. Sauron was bound to have sent someone to investigate when his hails through the Seeing Stone failed to produce a response, so it should come as no surprise. Indeed, the Nazgûl's arrival may be providential now that there was no other way to relate his tale (lies) to the Dark Lord about the fall of Isengard. As chillingly unpleasant as a conversation with a Ringwraith was, it was still an easier task than the same conversation with Sauron. And, unlike his dread master, the Nazgûl would not be able to sense that Saruman had been defrocked of his office.

Yes! The situation could easily be manipulated to his advantage. In fact the Nazgûl's arrival may be the best bit of news Saruman had received in many days!

All this passed through his mind within seconds, so it was in a voice of calm authority that he bade Borgalak to show the Nazgûl into the Great Hall when he arrived.

"As yer wish, Master. An' will yore Lordship be wanting dinner served afore or after 'is visit? I 'as made a right tasty stew wiv the last o' the beef. It'll be pork an' chicken from 'ere on out I's afraid, sir."

Saruman rolled his eyes. "Dinner may wait until later, idiot."

The uruk took the insult in his stride."Very well, yer Greatness. Will yer be wanting the white hooded robe ter greet the Nazgûl wiv? Fing is I washed it las' night, sir. so it might be a bit damp yet."

"Forget the robe! I shall greet him as I am!" hissed Saruman, who was beginning to feel rather like a harangued husband.

"As yer wish, Master." Borgalak made to leave, then paused. "Oh, an I fergot ta say earlier, sir, but yer clean out o' smalls. I's afraid the four pairs I collected from yore chamber fell ter pieces as I was trying ter shift them stubborn stains – don't know me own strength sometimes!"

"Get out! _Get out!_ GET OUT!" screamed the fallen wizard, grabbing a candlestick from the neighbouring table and lobbing it across the steps. Borgalak dodged the missile and raced to the doors. "And take that simpering imbecile with you!" The uruk obediently grabbed Wormtongue by the scruff and threw him over his shoulder. Within seconds, Saruman was left alone to fume.

So this is what he had come to, then? This is how far he had fallen? From the greatest wizard in the history of Arda to the Bride of Borgalak? From discussing the fate of the world with its highest lords and masters to discussing the fate of his smalls with a simpleton? If Grima were not such a ghastly cook (and also had the use of both hands) then the uruk's days would have been numbered!

Growling deep in his throat, he spent the next ten minutes cursing his enemies for reducing him to his present state, then the next twenty marshalling his thoughts so that he might – with a lot of luck – improve upon his situation when the Ringwraith appeared.

He knew his guest had arrived even before Borgalak showed him into the Great Hall; a creeping chill seemed to snake its way from the Pinnacle down the many stairs of the Tower and into room of Orthanc itself. Determined to maintain the illusion of power, Saruman settled himself rather grandly on his throne, threw his shoulders back, held his green (and yellow and red) head high, and prepared to lie his way back into a position of power.

But he was about to get a very great shock.

The Nazgûl entered the vast chamber and strode up the Hall in deathly silence, the hem of its foul dark robe swishing noiselessly on the ground behind it. Saruman was shocked to recognise it as Khamûl, one of the most powerful of the Nine, second only to the Witchking himself. Never before had Sauron despatched such a high-ranking lieutenant and it gave him cause for concern. Had the Dark Lord heard of his defeat? Was Khamûl come to wrest Isengard from his control?

Apprehension swept through him and he fought to control it. It would not do to reveal weakness before such a dangerous guest. Adopting his usual air of cool indifference, he offered the new arrival a regal nod.

"What tidings do you bring from Mordor?"

"My Lord Sauron bids me to inform thee that word of thy treachery has reached Barad-dûr," hissed Khamûl, halting just short of the steps. "Thy plot to bring ruination to his lands will cost thee dearly!"

Treachery? Plot? What in the name of …

He rose slowly from his seat. "I do not know of what you speak, Lord Khamûl, but ever has Isengard been loyal to Mordor and its master and that is how it shall remain."

Apprehension gripped the fallen Istar as his dreadful guest regarded him ominously.

"Then thee refutest the claim made by thy secret ally, the Emperor of Mars, that ye both have plotted to overthrow the Dark Lord Sauron and supplant him as Lord of Middle Earth?"

The Emperor of _where_?

"The only ally I claim is the master of Mordor!" declared Saruman, almost as confused as he was alarmed.

"Deceiver! Thine ally revealed himself to my master not three days since! Perhaps thou wouldst recognise him better by the name of Darth Dumbledore, Dark Lord of the starship Enterprise?"

"I tell you once more that I have _no such knowledge_ of _any_ emperors or dark lords other than Sauron himself!" exclaimed Saruman, his burgeoning fear rapidly replaced by growing anger as the Ringwraith continued to speak the most extraordinary nonsense he had ever heard. "Whomsoever this Darth Dumbledore is, he is a liar! I have never heard of him, nor would I ever align myself with him against the might of Mordor!"

Unless this Darth Dumbledore had a _bigger_ army that Sauron.

Khamûl remained indifferent to his objections. "The Dark Lord Sauron himself descried this intent after careful study of thine ally. He hath learned of the army of five thousand ye both would send to storm Mordor!"

Five thousand? Pathetic! Not nearly big enough for Saruman to switch allegiances. Unfortunately. Not that he was too surprised, given that Darth Dumbledore was only supposed to be the Dark Lord of a single ship.

"There is no such army, for I have no such numbers to spare! Look yourself to the evidence before your eyes: Isengard has been beleaguered by the Ents of Fangorn. They have brought death to all who dwelled outwith the Tower itself. This 'Darth Dumbledore' is taking you for a fool!"

"'Twas the Dark Lord Sauron's arts which garnered this information. Dost thou mean to say that there exists one who can deceive him at his mightiest? For if that be true, then the ally thou wouldst deny is yet more dangerous than he at first perceived – which would make thee a greater threat to my master also, if thou art in league with him!"

The situation was slowly getting out of hand. Despite his most vociferous denials, Khamûl refused to believe that Saruman was innocent of the charges he laid before him. And if Sauron believed as the Nazgûl did, then Khamûl's duty in Orthanc was clear: eliminate the threat. But did that mean death or worse?

His question was answered with shocking swiftness when Khamûl pulled a dark blade from his belt and began to advance toward the stairs.

"Events are in motion now to prevent thy treachery, White Wizard! Yet it comes at great inconvenience to my master. As a result, Sauron has not the time to deal with thee as he would wish; yet neither would he care to bestow upon thee the mercy of a swift death. The Dark Lord may be weary of thy duplicity, but not of thy service. Thus shall the Eight become Nine once more, and all the more powerful for claiming a Wizard as one of their kind."

"But I have been defrocked of my powers!" exclaimed the ex-wizard, desperate enough to save his skin that he would reveal his shame. "Gandalf has returned from the very jaws of death – _he_ is now the White Wizard! I would make no more powerful a Ringwraith than the least of you!"

"'Tis unfortunate, yes. But in the end it matters not."

The Nazgul's hissing voice was low and very, very dangerous. Saruman took one look at the blade he wielded and began to sidle away, hoping to make a dash for the door and from there … well, even death by Treebeard was preferable to becoming one of the very monsters that was slowly advancing on him. Or he might do a Borgalak and jump off the Pinnacle in the hope he would sprout wings – but no! He couldn't do that either: Khamûl's fell beast would tear him limb from limb first.

"I tell you again that I have not betrayed your master!" he cried desperately, using the power of his Voice. It stilled the Ring-wraith for a moment.

"Then perhaps thou canst explain why Darth Dumbledore would name thee as an ally? Or why thou hadst the bearer of the One Ring in thy grasp and did not report it?"

Saruman was so surprised that he stilled in his sneaky descent of the stairs. This put him a mere few feet from his blade-wielding aggressor and, promptly realising the danger, he began to sidle down the steps again.

"You are mistaken, my friend," he replied smoothly. "Had I been fortunate to hold the Ring-bearer, I would have surrendered him immediately to Sauron as a gift from the Lord of Isengard."

Which was true; he would have despatched the halfling on the fastest warg to Mordor - sans Ring, of course. Saruman felt marble beneath his feet and began to back away from Khamûl, who was now descending the dais in kind.

"Thou art a deceiver. Both Darth Dumbledore and the Halfling spoke with my master through _thy_ Palantír!"

"My Palantir ..? _Wait!_"

Khamûl ground to a halt when the full power of Saruman's Voice hit him. His host, however, did not flee for his life as he should have; instead, to the Nazgûl's surprise, Saruman began to pace the Hall as several things clicked into place.

Fool! Why had he not seen that earlier? The clang on the balcony, the boy and halfling unconscious, the Palantír in the hands of the ranger ...

"This 'Darth Dumbledore'," he began, spitting the name from his mouth contemptuously, "he would not by any chance have spoken with the Dark Lord three days since?"

"Then thou dost claim him as an acquaintance? As an ally?"

"I claim him as an _enemy_! As much my enemy as he is your master's!" growled Saruman. 'Tis the very boy that I warned Sauron of almost one week ago; the foreign Istar who is in league with Gandalf. My Seeing Stone was cast from Orthanc during battle with the Ents - with whom the Halfling was in league! The boy and the Halfling must have caught it together. They knew not its purpose: they would have been helpless before the might of the Dark Lord."

Yet perhaps not ...

"The boy's powers are not entirely akin to mine," the former wizard muttered. "What if he possessed some strange magic that made him immune to Sauron's command? It would then have been an easy enough matter for him to deceive the Dark Lord – to pit Isengard against Mordor by use of falsehoods and cunning! What better way to distract an enemy than to create a web of lies that would see them turn on each other and thus minimise the threat to himself and his allies – his _true _allies?"

Oh, Longbottom junior was good. _Very_ good.

But he was also very young, and he would have to live a lot longer before he ever hoped to reach Saruman's level of cunning!

He whirled to face Khamûl who, to his alarm, was now standing but five feet away: Saruman had become so engrossed in dissecting what must have happened that he had not been concentrating on maintaining the power of his Voice. Fortunately, his host's expostulating had stilled the Nazgûl's wrath because Khamûl was listening intently.

But he had not sheathed the Morgul blade.

"Continue," the dark lieutenant hissed.

Saruman gulped. "The magic of the foreign Istari is different from any that I have ever known, yet it is still powerful. I believe it is more than possible that, with its use, the boy was not only able to withstand Sauron's questioning but to fabricate untruths simultaneously."

Aware that he was repeating himself, he rushed on before his unwelcome guest grew impatient and turned him into Arda's most colourful Ring-wraith.

"If he was capable of this, then it is reasonable to assume that he would take advantage of the situation to lie to Sauron about my allegiance. I was, after all, a known enemy. Do you not agree?"

Seconds dragged as he waited for a response, one which would validate his argument and thus provide him with the hope that he would survive the day. Saruman could feel sweat trickling down his back and wondered absently if it was the last time he would ever enjoy the sensation. Finally, Khamûl spoke.

"I concede thy point -"

Relief poured through him, but his troubles were not over yet.

"- to an extent. The boy may have had the power to withstand my master's will, but it does not necessarily follow that he and thou art natural foes. Ye may still have plotted together to despatch troops to overthrow Barad-dûr."

"His own kin turned me three different colours!" seethed Saruman, trying to keep his temper in check. "His own protectress made antlers sprout from my head – I still have the stumps to prove it!"

He jerked a thumb at his sunshine-yellow hair.

"The boy himself is no simpering coward. He engaged me in battle by the eaves of Fangorn. His magic is such that he and his protectress were able to assist the smaller Rohirrim forces in crushing my army of ten thousand Uruk-hai. For all I know, he may be the very one who slew your brother Nazgûl! Why, then, would I align myself with someone so dangerous?"

The final barb hit home, as he had known it would. Khamûl emitted a hiss of rage at the thought of Longbottom slaying one of his number.

Seizing his moment, Saruman took his most calculated risk yet: pulling himself up proudly, he took a deep breath and levelled his eyes firmly on the Ringwraith, knowing that his next words would decide his fate.

"My friend, your master and I both have been the subject of his meddling, the victims of his deception; but let that end now! Let Isengard and Mordor rally together to strike at he who would sunder us! Let the lords of Orthanc and Barad-dûr unite in friendship again, yet stronger than ever before. Already had I devised a plan that may rid us of Neville Longbottom forever." He removed the pouch of _Longbottom's Bane_ and handed it over. "These seedlings I created ere I was robbed of my office. They are designed to interfere with his magic, to render him senseless. Yet I was not able to incant the Sealing spell before my staff was broken, nor have the crebain returned yet to disperse them for me."

The Ring-wraith eyed the contents of the pouch silently, thoughtfully. "There is the ring of truth in thy words, Lord of Orthanc. Thou art in earnest, it seems. Mayhap there is time yet to convince the Dark Lord of thy loyalty." He raised his cowled head and fixed Saruman with his dreadful gaze. "Yet he will require a show of proof from thee. What hast thou to offer?"

The sound of Saruman's own pulse thundered through his ears. He was almost saved! Just one more push ...

A thought occurred to him as he observed the pouch in Khamûl's gloved hand; one so delicious and perfect that he might have laughed for the joy of it. Confidence filled him once more as he prepared to not only save his own neck, but put the Dark Lord in his debt forever.

And bring the deepest of anguish to all who knew and loved the grandspawn of the Longbottom hag.

He smiled coldly. "Perhaps if my seedlings and I aid him in procuring a Wizard to make the Nine complete once more, that may be proof enough that Saruman has ever been the most loyal of friends to the Dark Lord Sauron?"

A pause, then:

"An intriguing thought." To Saruman's eternal relief, Khamûl sheathed the Morgul blade. "I am listening."

And together they began to hatch a terrible scheme that would lead to the downfall of Neville Longbottom and all his allies.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**


	37. Tactics

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. and Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

**Credit: **tolkiengateway dot net, lotr wiki/wikia, Tim Wonnacott (don't ask).

**Chapter 37**

* * *

_Dol Amroth_

_Third Age 7th_ _March 3019_

It was late in the afternoon; Neville, Molly and Halbarad - sans horses – had adjourned to a larger chamber within the castle of Dol Amroth with Elphir and Minacil. A long olive-wood table stretched from one end of the room to the other, its surface scattered with sea charts and land maps; around it were gathered Imrahil's eldest son and his guests, and to it he had also hailed the remaining captains of the city. Tall windows opened onto a balcony high above the sea-walls which circled the city, though they remained closed at present, shutting out the rhythmic sound of waves lapping against the shore and the numerous gulls crying overhead.

Regal statues of noble princes and kings wielding huge swords and enormous shields - which, Neville had learned, could be found in almost every room and hallway of the building - also kept silent sentry over the proceedings in what was effectively a war chamber. He eyed one of them now; a particularly sombre looking bloke in a high helmet who seemed to be studying the teenager with a definite sceptical expression on his marble face.

Neville shivered. How in Merlin's name did Muggles manage to make statues appear so intimidating without the use of magic? He turned away from it and found that the newly arrived lords of Dol Amroth were still bestowing equally sceptical looks upon him and Molly.

Brilliant.

To say that these lords of Gondor had been surprised to meet such oddly attired guests was an understatement. His stripey jumper had been the subject of much scrutiny in the last ten minutes and Neville was beginning to wish he had changed into something a little more bland when he got up that morning. But his jumper had nothing on the effect Molly's tights were creating: at least three blokes in full armour had been staring at her scarlet-clad woollen pins in open-mouthed shock for the past ten minutes. They hadn't even registered Elphir's (almost ecstatic) news to the room at large that Dol Amroth had recently gained the services of a mighty Ranger of the North and two benevolent Istari. Molly became increasingly self-conscious until, finally, she'd had enough.

"Right! That's it! Unless one of you plans to propose to me in the next five minutes you'd better stop ogling my legs or I'll be introducing you to the business end of my wand!" she snapped in irritation, brandishing said instrument under their noses. Half a dozen strapping soldiers jumped back in girly fright when red sparks shot out of the tip.

After that small demonstration, not one pair of eyes in the room had dared stray any further south than her neck and attention quickly returned to concocting a plan of action for tackling the new threat to southern Gondor.

Much to the visitors' chagrin, they discovered that the Corsairs had indeed managed to assemble a fleet to counter Neville's non-existent one, and that it was currently sailing its way north.

"Twenty ships!" gasped Molly, sinking into a high-backed chair. "How many soldiers is that exactly?"

One of the redundant naval captains, Barandomar of the Third Fleet, rubbed his forehead tiredly. "Two hundred per vessel, my Lady."

"Four thousand men! Merlin's beard! And how many could you whip up to counter them, dear? Dol Amroth must have some ships of her own …"

She was cut off by a now poo-free Minacil, sitting to her left. "Ships we have, but alas! Most of our trained forces march to the aid of Minas Tirith with Prince Imrahil, so we have none to man them with. Or at least, we could man perhaps one, but it would be extremely foolish to pit one against twenty."

Twenty to one? Foolish? Hah! Less fighting machine, more cannon fodder was the more accurate description.

"And even that would leave us with naught but a few hundred men with which to defend the City proper," finished the acting Chief of the Swan Fleet.

"Four _thousand_ men."

Oh, dear. Molly was repeating herself again - never a good sign, in Neville's experience. Still, he couldn't blame her. Four thousand was not a huge force, but it might well have been fifty thousand for all the good a few hundred would do against it. Even their odds at Helm's Deep had been vastly better than that.

"Don't you have separate naval and land forces?" he enquired.

"Yes. But living on the cusp of the sea as we do, all soldiers receive basic training in both sea and land combat, and as the current threat to Gondor is land based, most of our soldiers have been drafted into the land-based battalions to deal with it, and others must remain to protect the City. There is a skeleton fleet, but it is not presently large enough to deal with twenty extra ships we had not reckoned with. We might summon what troops can be spared from Edhellond, but it would take too long to mobilise them and march them down here."

Great. Now he felt like an even bigger git for putting them in more danger. Still, guilt would not help him come up with a plan, so he swallowed it and tried to concentrate on the problem at hand.

"So no matter what we do, we don't have a large enough force to counter them," the teenager murmured, taking up position by one of the windows and gazing absently out at the open sea.

"Not at present. We may perhaps attempt an ambush," suggested Minacil. "If we can but block their access to the Anduin with our ships and use ground forces to assail them -"

"Nay! It is too dangerous to wait that long! The Corsairs must not be allowed to make it that far into Gondor! We must meet them head on -"

A heated discussion on the merit of ambush versus direct confrontation broke out behind him; Neville opened one of the windows and took a deep breath of the salty air to clear his head, wishing there were a few dozen giant squids swimming in the sea below that he could call to their aid. If they would even _listen_ to him, that was. They might very well tell him to sod off and fight his own battles, thank you very much (if they spoke English). Then again, they might very well only speak Squiddish (if that was even a language, though it _sounded_ good enough to be one), in which case the only person he suspected might have been able to talk to them was now, unfortunately, dead.

How Neville missed Professor Dumbledore! He would bet his entire stock of Mimbulus Mimbletonia that the deceased Hogwarts headmaster would have been able to come up with and execute a daring plan to rescue all of Middle Earth within hours and still be home in time for dinner. True, it would probably have been something risky and very dangerous, but it would have worked.

Perhaps that's what he needed to do, then? Try to put himself in Dumbledore's shoes?

Sniggering semi-hysterically, Neville quickly turned it into a cough when he felt curious eyes on his back. Him, think like Dumbledore? That would be like asking Professor Lockhart to produce a decent Shield Charm. No, he'd have to stick with thinking for himself. It hadn't hurt too much in the past, as he'd proven in his seventh year.

The conversation behind him continued, each person trying and failing to come up with a crafty master plan to scupper Sauron's latest strike; from the rather desperate plan of sending their whole one ship plus a small flotilla of fishing boats loaded with armed men to challenge the superior navy, to the far more ridiculous ones of using Molly's supply of Wildfire Whiz-bangs to frighten them off and/or Apparating troops aboard the ships to ambush them from within.

"Apparate?" asked one of Elphir's men, his face blank.

Halbarad gave a brief description of the process and many present shifted uncomfortably at the thought of being squeezed to within an inch of their lives.

"Not a plausible idea, though, as Molly's the only one who can perform side-along Apparition," quipped Neville. "And it would take ages for her to Apparate a whole army from here to wherever we're going."

Lacking any constructive suggestions of his own, he remained silent thereafter, content to drum his fingers against the sill and futilely hope that inspiration struck. Soon.

What would Harry do in their situation? Or Dumbledore? Huge enemy numbers bearing down upon them, not enough resources to counter the imminent attack, and only days to spare before (possibly) _two_ superior forces arrived to smack them into next week …

Wait! That was it.

He slapped his forehead in a mixture of relief and irritation. Was he a wizard, or not?

"Do these Corsairs have any cannons on board their ships?" he asked, recalling both his snide thought from earlier and an issue of _The Adventures of Marvin Miggs, The Mad Muggle _he had once read, where the hapless hero had tried to sink a French warship with a rather peculiar Muggle contraption called a pea-shooter (Marvin had been lamentably unsuccessful in the attempt).

Elphir responded. "Cannons? Of what do you speak?"

"Great big metal cylinders that use an explosion of some kind to shoot massive metal balls at other ships."

"Nay, thank the Valar! They carry mainly swords and daggers, though there are some archers. They have been known to use firebombs to inflict damage on enemy targets, but these are not of great size and more often than not end up setting fire to their own ships, which is the one thing all sailors dread; they are rarely used these days."

Excellent news! No cannons, no fodder. Happy days!

"Why do you ask?" said Elphir curiously.

"Because," he began, raising his voice enough to be heard over the others, "we've wasted precious time wondering about how we're going to stop the Corsairs when we really didn't have to. The answer has been staring us in the face all this time."

Swivelling around on his heel, Neville huffed in the rather disgusted manner of one who has just seen the forest after spending days looking at the trees. The conversation slowly died as everyone waited expectantly.

"What do you mean, Neville Longbottom?"

"I mean that we don't need to send ships to block the Anduin or ambush them in the Bay of Belfalas. We don't need to frighten them with fireworks or fake sea-monsters. We don't even have to send as much as one single soldier to engage them!"

"We don't?" chorused Elphir and Halbarad simultaneously.

"Of course not! All we need to do is stop them from ever arriving. In fact, what we _really_ need to do is make them turn around and go back to the Haven of Umbar."

Halbarad eyed the flushed teenager as if he was seriously debating his sanity. "I believe that is what we have been discussing, more or less," he said, with a touch of irony. "But how do you propose we achieve this?"

"Easy. Jump on a broom, Disillusion ourselves and start blasting away at the gits. How far are the Corsairs really going to get with stonking big holes in their hulls? They'll be lucky to be able to limp back to the safety of Umbar, let alone cross the Bay of Belfalas, navigate their way up the Anduin and launch an attack on a fleet that doesn't exist."

There was a stunned silence, broken only by the figurative clack of several manly jaws hitting the floor.

"Neville, that's … that's …" breathed Molly, so overcome with giddy relief and pride that she was quite unable to finish. Neville spared her the trouble.

"It's not brilliant, Molly. It's obvious. I should've thought of it sooner instead of worrying over numbers. I mean, when you really think about it, they'll just be so much _easier_ to deal with at sea. Twenty ships holding four thousand men? So what? They're not land-bound so they'll remain nothing more than twenty targets unless they manage to dock, their motion is restricted, we know they don't have cannons, neither do they have any modern Muggle weapons. In fact, all they _do_ have is size, whereas _we_ have manoeuvrability. And _magic. _What hope do they have against invisible airbound assailants? Crikey, they'll be sitting ducks! I almost feel sorry for them."

Almost, but not quite.

Elphir stared at him in burgeoning hope. "'Tis wondrous simple, indeed. But dare we hope that it might work?"

"No reason it shouldn't, unless they've got some sort of invisible wizard-detector mounted on their steering wheels."

If ships had steering wheels. Or was that motor-cars? Muggle technology was so confusing!

"An admirable plan," said Minacil, whose expression remained unnervingly sombre, "but for one small issue."

One small issue? Typical! There was always one small ruddy issue waiting to ruin perfection. Umbridge at Hogwarts, for instance.

"What issue would that be?" said Neville, thinking he ought to ask even though he didn't really want to.

"Slaves."

That was the last thing he'd expected to hear. "Slaves?" he parroted stupidly.

Minacil laced his fingers together on the table and stared at the teenager. "Yes. Slaves. They are kept chained in the ship's hold and the Corsairs drive them with whips and threats, forcing them to row their vessels. These slaves are innocent travellers ambushed on their journeys, and numerous captives from previous conflicts, as well as criminals – or those _they_ deem to be criminal. If you are going to blast holes in their ships, then it is safe to assume that some of those ships may sink. Would we condemn innocents to death just to be rid of the Corsair threat?"

Neville looked at Molly in horror. The Corsairs kept _slaves_? Dobby's face swam before his mind's eye, and he recalled some of the stories the late elf used to tell him of his time with the Malfoys when Neville was in hiding in the Room of Requirement.

"'Tis unfortunate, to be sure, but every war has it casualties," said someone, a man with a long scar running the length of his left cheek. There were several rumbles of agreement.

"Nay," said another, Barandomar, as it turned out. "We would be no better than our enemies if we so casually condemned the innocent to death. Are not innocents the very ones we seek to protect?"

"'I do not say that I like the idea!" exclaimed the first man indignantly. "Nor do I make the suggestion casually! Nay, the thought of condemning them to their deaths disturbs me greatly, but can we afford to show two thousand men mercy when it may cost the lives of two hundred thousand or more men, women and children, if the Dark Lord is victorious?"

A heated discussion broke out and several voices raised themselves in anger, each vying to be heard over the other.

"Wait a minute!" said Neville, suddenly excited by a new prospect.

Everyone ignored him, too busy arguing with each other. Halbarad was rolling his eyes in despair as the debate escalated. Neville raised his own voice. "Oi! OI! Will everyone please listen for a moment!"

No response.

"BE QUIET!"

This from Molly, who was standing with arms akimbo, glaring at the assembled nobility as if they were a no more than a roomful of unruly teenagers (something she had had great experience with). Arguments died mid-sentence as everyone eyed her with a mixture of surprise and shock.

"That's better. Now, if you would all stop behaving like rowdy schoolboys and pay attention, Neville has something he would like to say that we all might find beneficial."

The captains looked at each other guiltily and there were several mumbled, "Apologies, my Lady," "Forgive me, Lady Molly," and one rather cheeky "Yes, Naneth." Not one "Sorry, Neville," of course, but at least they were all now politely waiting for him to speak.

"Thanks, Molly. Now, did I hear you right Mr … Mr -"

"Aglador. Captain Aglador."

"Right. _Captain_ Aglador. Did I hear you right when you said there were two thousand slaves rowing the Corsair boats? In total?"

Aglador nodded. "Yes. It takes approximately one hundred men to power each vessel. Why?"

"He is going to suggest that we somehow board the ships, free the slaves and let them fight our battle for us," announced Halbarad, who was eyeing Neville shrewdly. The teenager's jaw fell. "Were you not?"

"Something like that," replied Neville, idly wondering if all Rangers were Seers, or if it was just Aragorn and Halbarad who had the gift of spooking him in this manner. "Two thousand men who have even more reason than we do to hate the Corsairs sounds like ready made army to me. We just need to revise our plan a little. I still think we should blast their ships, or some of them anyway. Molly could do this, distracting the Corsairs long enough for me to slip on board and free the slaves, and then we arm them and let them fight the enemy for us."

"Nay!" protested Barandomar. "Forgive me, Lady Molly, but the _danger_ to you! The Enemy may not possess the advanced weaponry of which young Neville speaks, but all it takes is one archer among hundreds to strike you with a lucky shot! Someone would be bound to hit you eventually. And what would it say of us, the proud warriors of Gondor, that we would send a delicate female to fight the battles we felt unequal to ourselves? History would name us as the greatest cowards there ever was, and rightly so!" He swung around and pointed an accusing finger at Neville. "How could you even suggest such a thing?"

The young wizard flushed in anger. Resisting the urge to thump the Captain of the Third Fleet, he settled for glaring at him instead and giving him a very Longbottom piece of his mind.

"You're worried about your _reputation_ when the fate of your world is at stake? Seriously? We aren't planning a tea party here you know -" he waved a hand at the assembled company "- we're fighting a war. And in war, it's _all_ hands on deck. Molly's aware of the risks involved but she's still a soldier.. And we're going to need all the soldiers we can get if we're going to win. You also seem to be forgetting one glaring point: Molly's not just any delicate female – she's a ruddy WITCH and a better flyer than me! What's more, this time last week she was rather _in_delicately helping to blast the lives out of several thousand orcs at Helm's Deep and survived without a scratch, so a few medieval ships in the middle of the sea aren't going to pose too much of a threat. But if the reality of the situation is too harsh for your delicate sensibilities to handle, feel free to sod off and let the rest of us get on with tackling the job at hand."

It was Barandomar's turn to flush. The Gondorian had to fight his obvious anger at being chastised by a youth, but he managed it admirably.

"Forgive me, young Wizard," he apologised, somewhat stiltedly. "I am of course deeply grateful for the service which you and your companions offer so readily. It is simply … _difficult _… for me to see a woman take up arms when every fibre of my being screams out to protect her."

"Molly can protect herself. And I'll be there to protect her too."

Which wasn't saying much, given that he'd be using all his energy just to stay on the ruddy broom, let alone navigating around a ship or watching his Guardian's back. Not that her back _needed _watching, thanks to the Light of Varda, but there was no need to broadcast that.

He silently thanked his grandmother for the hated flying lessons he'd had to endure the summer after his first year at Hogwarts ended. To say Gran had been upset upon learning he couldn't fly a broomstick (when his father had been a more than competent flyer) was an understatement: she had banned him from the greenhouse for six weeks, which was precisely how long it had taken Neville to prove that he could sit on a broomstick for more than ten seconds without breaking a limb. True, he would never outfly Harry Potter, but at least he was now competent enough to hover (without vomiting), gain momentum (weeping in terror) and land (screaming in fright).

"Lady Molly -" Captain Barandomar addressed the witch "- I beg your pardon. I forgot for a moment that you are an Istar."

"And a powerful one at that," added Minacil. "Have I not seen with my own eyes that you can make man and beast appear from thin air? Indeed I have! A few Corsair ships shall indeed be no match for you!"

Molly beamed. "No need to apologise, dear," she reassured Barandomar. "I know Neville and I must seem very strange to you all, but we are sturdier than we look. Still, it was lovely to be called delicate – that hasn't happened in years!"

She patted her ample stomach, eliciting a round of chuckles which eased the tension in the room.

"Now that we have resolved that particular objection, let us turn to the other burning issue at hand: Sauron's second line of attack. If Neville and Molly are successful in dealing with the Corsairs that would leave us with but one army to deal with, if it exists at all. I am inclined to think that it will, if for no other reason than Sauron would wish to prove his overwhelming might to any who would challenge him as boldly as Neville. My Lord Elphir, you spoke earlier of sea-birds used by your people as messengers -"

"The _dulinear_," affirmed Elphir, guessing what Halbarad was about to ask. "Used mainly by sentries along the coastlines from here to the Haven of Umbar. Due to escalating hostilities with Mordor's allies we have also been despatching them to and from secret outposts along Southern Ithilien, the Harad Road and Pelargir - though it has been two days since word has reached us from the latter. I suspect the worst has befallen Falasher and his people."

"Have you heard aught from the other outposts mentioned?"

"Naught as of yet. But given what Master Longbottom has told us of his encounter with Sauron, it would be foolish of us not to gather what troops we can and prepare to march east at the earliest convenience; if the Dark Lord is sending extra ships north, then we must also assume he is diverting troops westwards. At good speed they may reach the Ethir Anduin in a few days if they have already had two days head start. Which brings us again to the matter of our own troops: we cannot guess at the number Sauron might send across land, but I think it safe to assume it will be at least as great as the five thousand Neville claimed to have at his command."

He paused, pondering his thoughts for a moment, then, "Yet if our young Wizard friend speaks truly, and he can despatch the Corsairs as swiftly as we hope, we shall be able to concentrate _all_ our resources on the threat from the east. Neville, might you be able to implement your daring plan by nightfall?"

Neville swallowed a laugh. Poor Elphir. He had never seen him on a broom before. Catching Molly's eye, he lifted an eyebrow and she nodded immediately. Satisfied, he joined his host at the table.

"Molly and I will get started on that while you ready your men for the march east. We'll need to get a rough idea of where they were last seen so we'll know where we're going."

"They were spotted thirty leagues south of Harondor yesterday. They ought to have passed that now, though not by much."

"I am familiar with the outpost in Harondor," said Halbarad. "There is another outpost ten leagues north, is there not?" He looked questioningly at Elphir, who nodded in surprise. The Ranger smiled mysteriously. "I have travelled to and from the Haven of Umbar in my younger years. For reconnaissance purposes."

Neville was pleased to hear that Halbarad would be accompanying them.

"We'll have to plan the attack a little more precisely before we leave," he continued, "and we'll definitely need to take at least a few of Elphir's men with us, those who are familiar with the layout of ships, that is, because I haven't got a clue about them. Molly, how many people can you Apparate at once?"

Molly's forehead scrunched in thought. "No more than four, including myself."

"Okay, so we'll just have to make do with a small group of about ten men. Can you spare them?"

"They will be ready within the hour," replied Elphir with a gracious nod of his dark head.

"Great. When we get back, we can rest for a few hours before marching east, if all goes well. I have to admit that I had sort of hoped any army Sauron sends on foot wouldn't be any larger than his fleet, though," he mused, balking at the thought of facing a such a large ground force when Dol Amroth had so few resources of its own at present. "I mean, he'll be expecting us to be on ships, so surely the ground troops will just be a smaller support force waiting to ambush us?"

"Yet still enough to outnumber us at short notice. Do not forget, Neville Longbottom, that the Dark Lord has hundreds of thousands of men and Orcs at his command. It will be nothing to him to send ten thousand to contend with the little distraction you present to him. Forgive me, but I do not think that we should count on a force of less than five thousand."

This from Barandomar, whose positive outlook and sunny disposition were beginning to grate on Neville's nerves, even if he _did_ have a point.

"Fine. So we'll expect five thousand. Can anyone give me an estimated number of the amount of soldiers Dol Amroth might be able to come up with at a push? They don't even have to be trained soldiers – anyone who can pick up a sword or shoot an arrow will do, as long as they're old enough and willing."

"Five hundred and eighty soldiers," answered Elphir, who had been lamenting their odds that very morning. "Perhaps a little over a thousand if we draft in fishermen and farmers, and they will certainly be willing; the men of Dol Amroth are all proud and strong. If Pelargir has fallen, we must also assume that Linhir has met with the same fate, so we must expect no aid from there. As for Edhellond and Ethring, they are simply too far away to despatch us any troops ere we leave, which must be within the day if we are to make good time to the River Poros."

Blimey, a paltry thousand? Still, it was better than five hundred and eighty, though not by much. There must be _some_ way to set the odds a little more in the favour of the West, though.

His eye caught one of the many forbidding statues in the room and he grinned.

"How many of those horrib … er … handsome statues are there in the castle altogether?"

Sea-grey eyes narrowed knowingly. "Many. They displease you, young Neville? You find them unsightly?"

"No!"

Well, yes.

"They're great." A lie. They were definitely creepy, something that he was hoping to use to their advantage. "Are they your ancestors?" he asked offering his host a polite (but unconvincing) smile.

Elphir pursed his lips, but luckily he thought the better of arguing with a barely post-adolescent wizard. "Some, yes. They are depictions of all the princes of Dol Amroth in days past. We also have likenesses of every King of Gondor except Tarannon – who was never forgiven by his people for inflicting his Queen, Beruthiel, upon them – and statues of every Steward of Gondor."

"And how many is that exactly?"

The regent prince reflected for a few seconds. "Including multiple depictions of a few higher and/or more beloved kings, perhaps one hundred and twenty, no more."

"You have_ one hundred and twenty _statues of kings and princes in the city?" squawked Neville in disbelief.

"In the_ castle_," corrected Elphir in amusement. "There are more scattered throughout Dol Amroth, in barracks and gatehouses, in the Hall of Music and other public places, in the City square and also in Tirith Aear, the Sea-ward Tower. I would guess at well over two hundred and fifty at the last count, though they are not all as small as these." He indicated one of the nearby (life-sized) sculptures, then shrugged elegantly when Neville's jaw dropped. "Gondor is surrounded by mountains, Master Longbottom. We have an abundance of marble in the region and more masons than -"

He gave an ironic laugh. "More masons than soldiers at present, or near enough."

Too staggered to speak, Molly did it for him.

"Well that's good news for us! And bad news for the enemy."

Halbarad frowned in puzzlement. "Forgive me, Molly, but I fail to see why that should be."

Wasting no time with explanations, the matronly witch walked over to one of the forbidding statues, offered the watching crowd a soothing "Now don't be alarmed boys," and touched it with her wand.

"Piertotum locomotor!"

With a horrible screeching, cracking noise, the former king/prince/steward pulled its legs free of the marble plinth and sprang to the ground. It landed with a resounding shudder and there was a round of girly screams as everyone bar the visiting Istari leapt away in fright.

"Ai, Elbereth!" shouted Minacil, who then dived under the table.

"Sweet Eru, save us!" yelled a strapping soldier who made a dash for the doorway, followed by almost everyone else. Only Halbarad and Elphir, who were a little more used to Molly and Neville's talents (and Minacil, who had not run away purely because he was still taking cover under the table) remained where they were.

"Don't be afraid!" exclaimed Molly, mortified by their reaction. "It won't hurt you – well, not unless I ask it to. Which, of course, I won't."

The latter she added after receiving several panicked looks (from the men she had chastised earlier for staring at her tights), but it proved ineffective.

"Return to your seats at once!" commanded the heir of Dol Amroth, shouting to be heard among the panicked cries resulting from ten men trying to squeeze themselves through one doorway at the same time.

Where her assurances had failed, the sound of their prince's ire successfully stilled the fleeing men. With great reluctance, the troop of very anxious looking Gondorian captains turned about and made their (very) slow way back to the olive wood table; all eyes on the grim-faced and unnaturally animate statue (which seemed for all the world to glower at them in very McGonagall-like disapproval), all hands on sword hilts, and each man jostling for the position that was farthest from suddenly very scary sculpture.

"Lovely!" said Molly, looking pleased. Neville grinned. "If that's the reaction one of them gets from you lot when it hasn't even done anything yet, imagine what two hundred and fifty moving ones will do to a whole army!"

Halbarad laughed in shock. "Has done nothing yet? It jumped from its plinth!"

"Ah, but it can also do this." She turned to the now prone statue and cheerily ordered it to march to the bottom of the room and back again.

Which is exactly what it did. All the way down, turn about, and all the way back. The room shuddered as marble boots obliterated the helpless flagstones beneath, until it finally came to a stop before Molly. Even without the benefit of the plinth, it towered over her.

"Of course, this is a confined space. They'll all move much faster when they're outside," she said matter-of-factly, beaming at the statue like a proud mother.

"_And_ they'll be able to use their swords," added Neville. "And the _really_ great thing is that Sauron's forces can't use magic, so if they want to destroy them, they'll have to shatter them manually. We'll still be outnumbered, of course, but your ancestors here will go a long way towards evening out the odds a little. Er, you might want to warn your people that we'll be … erm... collecting them, so they don't die of fright when statues all over Dol Amroth start marching through the streets. Same goes for any free standing suits of armour you might have scattered about."

Before they could react to this unnerving information, there was a sharp rap on the door. A tall guard entered and bowed.

"My Lord Elphir, the lords Erchirion and Amrothos have been sighted outside the City walls. They shall arrive within the next quarter hour."

Elphir offered him a nod of thanks and the guard, after staring at the ruined floor in deep puzzlement, departed. Sparing the now stationary statue a cautious glance, the prince rose and cleared his throat.

"My brothers will wish to report on their scouting trip, and I shall have much to impart to them also. Minacil," Elphir addressed his chief counsellor (who had now re-emerged from under the table), "see that the remaining Swan Knights are assembled and ensure we have suitable weapons for at least a thousand men."

With a smart bow, and looking very grateful to be sent as far away from the grim-looking statue as possible, Minacil pivoted smartly and marched as quickly from the room as he humanly could (without breaking into a run). Elphir turned next to Barandomar.

"Send word to Cobas Haven that we have need of all able-bodied men and gather them to the City. Inform the neighbouring farms also that we have need of men of courage and stamina. Captain Aglador, alert the stablemasters to ready our steeds. At dawn we ride to war."

The two captains also bowed and left, leaving eight men awaiting orders from their lord.

"Gentlemen, I need each of you to scour the City and ensure that all people remain within their households until we depart. Clear any room, building or public place of people that contains statuary, whether many or few. As we have no hope of gathering so much marble in one place in so short a time, we must allow them to move themselves when they are called by our Istari friends, and I would not have the general population panicking in the streets when this happens.

"Neville, Halbarad, Lady Molly, if you would accompany me, you may assist with the debrief of my brothers. I have no doubt that one or both of them will wish to accompany you south - once they have suitably recovered from their shock, that is."

With that, the room emptied; the captains off to do their prince's bidding, and Elphir's new allies following him to meet his kin and make the final preparations for the first of the upcoming battles. Their plans were not perfect by any means, yet Neville was feeling reasonably confident that, with a little refining, they would be more than equal to the challenges ahead.

Assuming everything went according to plan …

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Author's Note_: Assuming this fic has any readers left, I apologise profusely for the eight month delay in posting. I'm afraid the reason is the same old chestnut as before: my muse, or rather, my lack of it. It's been incredibly difficult to write anything longer than one thousand words these past months, which is the main reason why I've only been able to post drabbles or vignette-type thingys. But, after starting and restarting this chapter several times (it feels like I've been stuck in Elphir's bloody war room for six months), I've decided that, even if it's a bit rough round the edges, this is as good as it's going to get for the moment. Hopefully it's not too awful or confusing. Once I'm back into the swing of things, chapters will resume their normal length/quality/humour.

And hopefully by then Tuckborough dot net will be back up too (I'm lost without it)!

Nothing much happened in this chapter (apart from it being posted), but it was necessary to the story. Most of chapters after this will be battle scenes (Eru help me), so enjoy the calm while you can!

Thanks for reading, folks,

Kara's Aunty ;)


	38. Liberty & Deceit

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. and Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

**Credit: **tolkiengateway dot net, lotr wiki/wikia.

**Chapter 38**

* * *

_Minas Tirith_

_Third Age 13th-14th March 3019_

Osgiliath was overrun, both eastern and western sides of the once fair city. The Enemy had already taken the Causeway Forts and blasted its way through various sections of the walls surrounding the Pelennor Field, and now they advanced on Minas Tirith, burning as they marched. Countless wains arrived every few minutes loaded with those dead and wounded gathered by the retreating companies, some of whom returned slowly, wearily, and others running wildly as if pursued.

On the plain before Minas Tirith fires flickered in abundance. The deep rumble of enemy voices carried over her city walls, compounded by the dreadful, relentless screech of Nazgûl who swooped down to assail the remnant lines of the main retreat.

These were terrible sights in and of themselves, and the Gondorian forces were doing all they could to remain steadfast and resolved despite them. When the trumpet rang from the Citadel and Prince Imrahil rode forth from the Gate with a wizard, an elven lord and a sortie of brave riders in tow crying 'Amroth for Gondor! Amroth to Faramir!' they rallied once more. White fire and elven glow lit the gloom and their lights shone like a beacon of hope that drove the screeching Nazgûl and the Morgul host from the flanks of the retreating soldiers. An onslaught began when those fleeing turned to attack their pursuers, and many enemy troops were slain. But vengeance was shortlived, for trumpets called out for the final retreat and they must be obeyed.

And that was when Minas Tirith's resolve was nearly shattered, for a blow was struck upon her then which made grown men wail in despair.

Captain Faramir had been sorely wounded, perhaps even fatally.

Now, hours later, an eery silence had fallen while the city licked its wounds and the Enemy made final preparations to worry them once more.

It was the calm before the storm, mused Gandalf as he paced the wall of the sixth level.

Barely had the thought struck him when the silence was broken; the Morgul host remained still, neither retreating nor advancing, but from within their ranks rose the winged Riders once more, soaring, diving and screeching in an endless cacophony which turned cold the blood of all who heard.

"Remain at your posts! They do not attack yet!" he called to the restless soldiers on the level below: the cries of the Nazgûl were unsettling them enough that several stepped away from the wall. Luckily, the authority in the wizard's steady voice as it rang out in command steadied their hearts enough for them to obey him.

He watched them for a few moments more with pity in his heart. They should not have to rely on him to instruct them. Their lord should be here in his stead. Proud, strong and unyielding he should be, setting an example to them all. Alas! from Denethor none had heard another word after he returned from the Tower to sit with his remaining son. The Steward had all but admitted defeat and now it was up to those who remained to see to the defence of his city.

Gandalf paused, his bright eyes sweeping the plain ahead yet again. The Enemy had been busy digging trenches for many hours, and ever when they finished with one they would move on to the next; great wains arrived then with more troops to replace them, and soon enormous catapults rose where they stood. They were preparing to assail the higher levels of Minas Tirith with hurtling rock and stone, levels onto which the city's remaining residents had been evacuated ...

Minas Tirith was vastly outnumbered and outmatched, leaving Gandalf the White with a very serious quandary.

Would the Riders of Rohan arrive in time to save the city? Would there then be enough of them to help turn the tide in favour of the West? Or would Minas Tirith fall into darkness like Minas Ithil before her so many years ago? He eyed the veritable sea of heaving bodies on the Pelennor, and he could not deny the possibility. And if that happened, if Minas Tirith fell, all other lands west of her would topple quickly afterwards.

Grumbling softly to himself, Gandalf turned his thoughts to the person ensconced in Denethor's dungeons below. _She_ could help. He knew that. He had already heard of her exploits in battle from Glorfindel, and though her magic differed from his, there could be no doubt that it was powerful. And Gondor _needed_ that power. But did he dare release her, given what the consequences may be?

More screeches assailed his ears and he winced before checking the level below: men shuffled nervously, but they remained at their posts.

"You know what we must do."

It was Glorfindel who spoke. The elf lord stepped up behind him and stopped to peer across at the wildly swirling figures, his usual merry expression replaced by one of grave resolution.

"I cannot. We knew it might come to this. Must our resolve shatter at the first test?"

"'Tis not a matter of shattering resolve, but of the shattering of this City, and subsequently this world. Look yonder, Mithrandir!" Glorfindel pointed a tapering finger eastwards, towards the swirling Nazgûl, but kept his troubled eyes on the wizard. "They barely rest before rising again. We have already lost too many Men in the retreat, we cannot afford to lose any more to despair!"

His arm dropped, and Gandalf mused silently over his words, but the elf had barely started. "Even before the retreat we were outmatched in both strength and numbers, mellon nin, and now, with so many lost in the flight for the Gate and Sauron's winged servants spreading dread and terror, our predicament is infinitely worse."

The ancient Istar worried his lower lip with his teeth while the elf continued his appeal.

"The lord of the land remains ensconced with his ailing son," said Glorfindel. "Imrahil has now taken charge of the CIty defences; but even a doughty Swan Prince cannot banish the cloak of fear which threatens to strangle our resolve, or produce men where there are none. There is no other choice. I know that you are aware of this – I see the struggle on your face."

"You know what the consequences may be, Glorfindel! If what I saw in the Mirror of Galadriel comes to pass, then all this -" he waved a hand toward the Pelennor "- will be as naught next to the fate which awaits us. Do you not understand this?"

A sigh of frustration. "I am no fool, Mithrandir; I _do_ understand. But not all that the Mirror shows comes to pass -"

"More than once did this particular vision appear. Should I now doubt its veracity merely because it is convenient?" That gave the elf pause, and Gandalf sighed in relief for the moment's respite.

Yet Glorfindel's words had struck a chord within him because Gandalf _had _been contemplating that very thing.

_... not all that the Mirror shows comes to pass_.

He knew this. The Mirror showed what was, what is and what may come to pass. _May _come to pass_. _Indeed, if proof were needed, it had also shown the wizard a vision of Galion of Mirkwood's only daughter moments after giving birth to a flame-haired boy; yet the lady, a golden-haired beauty (and vicious shrew), was determined never to wed, and had become infamous for setting potential grooms the most impossible of tasks just so they would leave her in peace (her last known demand, over a millennium since, was that her suitor fetch her a fledgling from the Great Eagles' eyrie that she may rear it as a pet. Undeterred by the request and desperate to have her as his wife, the foolish elf actually set out upon the quest and was never heard from again – presumably because the Eagles had fed the impertinent youth to their offspring: they did not take kindly to fledgling-nappers).

Besides, Gandalf had never seen a red-haired elf in all his long years, so who was the babe's father supposed to be?

"You should not doubt the Lady Augusta, Mithrandir."

Ah. Glorfindel had revived and was ready for the second round.

"I have travelled and fought with her," he said, "and I tell you now that she is a noble woman, strong in heart and mind. Tell her what you saw in the Mirror - what reason can there be to withold it from her any longer? She is a woman of sense: if you forewarn her, then calamity can be avoided! Perhaps you may both reach an understanding which will secure her co-operation and also her aid – something we will soon have sore need of."

"The tide of the battle will not turn simply because we have one more Istar to aid us in thwarting the Enemy!" he retorted, not entirely convinced by his own words.

"I did not say that it would, but it may at least grant us a little more time until the Rohirrim arrive."

Elbereth, but his friend had a valid point! Perhaps it would not be such a terrible idea. But could he really strike a bargain with her to ensure she remained within the city whilst battle raged all around it? Would she be willing to listen to him after his machinations in securing her imprisonment? Not that he'd had any other choice at the time: there had been no opportunity to speak with her privately, to explain the situation _before_ it became obvious that Denethor was eager to dispose of her. And when the Steward _had_ ordered her imprisonment, it had simply been easier to ensure that, wherever she was kept, it was well out of sight of the Pelennor. Yet perhaps he had been too hasty?

"I am uncertain, Glorfindel. There can be no denying the aid she may provide, nor that it may revive the flagging spirits of the Gondorians after the blow of Faramir's injury -"

The deathly pale face of the Steward's ailing son swam before his mind's eye, and Gandalf had to swallow his fear for the young man's fate.

"- yet dare we chance it? Should we release her now with the best of intentions, only to have her instigate her grandson's doom, and thus ours? How can that be worth the risk?"

"Should we send two defenceless Hobbits into the Black Lands to destroy Sauron's trinket, only to have them discovered and our ruse fail, to the ruin of us all? How can _that_ be worth the risk?"

A smile tugged at Gandalf's lips. Not for nothing was Glorfindel mighty among elves.

Footfalls behind them heralded the movement of troops down to the lowest level; both turned to witness the march of the small company of heavily armed soldiers whose faces were grim and resolute. Yet there was another, more worrying, emotion lurking in the eyes of those who passed: resignation.

They all expected to die.

As if to compound this, chilling screeches burst forth once more in the skies above the Pelennor and many of the soldiers flinched in response. Answering wails of terror called out from every level below, and fear rose in a great swell about the city.

Encouraged, the Nazgûl swept ever closer, though always just out of reach of an arrow, screeching and crying out until the fear they created was an almost living thing, writhing from level to level throughout the city.

Gandalf leaned heavily upon his staff and rubbed his eyes in fatigue.

Curse those fell Riders! Minas Tirith was succumbing to despair ere the battle had even begun! Sauron had planned his assault well! Oh, the men of Gondor would fight, brave as they were, but with Ringwraiths leeching away at their hope and replacing it with terror they would not prevail for long. At this rate, the Enemy would only have to knock at the front gate to claim victory, and there was naught that he or his arts could do to prevent it. He, Glorfindel and Imrahil were already spread too thin, and it simply wasn't feasible for them to keep touring various levels of the city in an attempt to rally the soldier's spirits when they ought to be concentrating on the actual defence.

What they really needed was to whip their men into shape _en masse;_ to rally all of them at the same time.

What they _needed_ was someone with a very loud voice. And a very sharp tongue.

Sensing that his friend was wavering, the fair elf caught his gaze and held it.

"It is almost as if they wish to compensate for the one they have lost, is it not?" he said, indicating the swirling figures beyong the walls with a nod of his golden head. "To smother any hope his demise may have afforded us. And behold, it works! The Nine may now be Eight, but the terror they spread this eve is as great as if they were twice that number! Mithrandir, we cannot delay any longer: we _need_ the Green Witch! If your eyes doubt it, then surely your ears cannot? Obtain her promise to remain within the City whilst battle is ongoing and I swear to you that she will honour it. Return her staff and liberate her while there is yet time!"

Dare he? There were many arguments in support of her release, despite the danger to the Quest. For one thing, Gandalf's vision may be just that: a vision. Nothing more. And if he did acquiesce, and – Elbereth fobid - the worst happened?

Aragorn's voice came unbidden to his mind, repeating the final part of the message Galadriel had sent Neville in his dreams:

_'If foulness engulfs thee and fear holds thee still,_ _another may wield thine own weapon to kill'._

Perhaps all might not be lost even then?

This knowledge, together with Glorfindel's passionate plea, finally tipped the balance and Gandalf yielded.

"I find that I am in agreement with you, my old friend. Denethor cares not what happens now, so I shall take it upon myself to liberate the lady -"

Glorfindel looked both relieved and thrilled, and Gandalf had to still his immediate flight to the dungeons before he continued.

"- yet be warned! If I cannot elicit a promise from the lady to do as I bid come what may, then we must proceed without her. I will not endanger all we fight for so that she may save her grandson."

This stopped his companion cold. "Do you mean that if fate delivers him to the Pelennor, the boy will fall? Or that her presence may cause it? 'Tis disturbing indeed, but how will that affect the outcome of the conflict?"

"I cannot say for certain. But look on yonder plain, my friend: this is war. We may all fall yet," the wizard replied. Glorfindel was clearly torn by some internal conflict, but then his fair face hardened with resolve.

"She has passed through many dangers to find her kin: it would grieve me to see her suffer were he slain. Yet perhaps it will not come to that. Either way, I shall remain with Lady Augusta at all times. You need not fear that she will seek the Pelennor Field as long as I am with her."

Resigned to his decision, the White Wizard nodded. "I must fetch Pippin to ease my reception with the lady. He and I shall dare the depths of the dungeons, and an old woman's wrath, together." Gandalf stilled his companion's objections with a wave of his hand. "Nay, we cannot both abandon the Men of Gondor, even if for only a few minutes; not when the foul servants of Mordor are spreading their poison thus. One of us must remain visible. Your presence and light will bring valuable comfort to our allies. I will deliver your foster aunt to you in due course – and then we shall see what she might do to banish this cursed gloom back from whence it came."

With that, he squared his shoulders and set off to find Pippin, hoping that the hobbit's presence in the dungeons would at least ensure his survival long enough to offer Augusta Longbottom an explanation for his actions.

**XXX**

The object of Gandalf's concerns had been pacing her small cell in frustration for several hours. The shocking revelation that she had apparently time-travelled Merlin knows how long into the past had taken a back seat for the moment because – not long after the knowledge was revealed to Augusta – a riot of truly disturbing noises from outside began filtering through her miniscule window.

Minas Tirith was under siege, or near enough it, and what was she doing? Twiddling her thumbs, that's what!

Too high up for her to see outside the window and get an idea of what was happening, she had been plaguing Vandomar for the past hour to let her know what the deuce was going on. He had merely told her that he was soon to leave, and that Sareth would give her what news she could when she brought her breakfast in the morning.

"If morning comes to any of us," he'd added cryptically.

"Will you _please_ stop being so mysterious!" she snapped in frustration. "Don't you hear the racket out there? Horns blowing and Merlin _knows_ what screeching in that dreadful manner! It'll only take five minutes for you to give me a general idea, surely?"

"Mistress, I cannot tell you that which I do not know. All I can say is that my fair City will soon be under siege and there are too few men to protect her. Gaoler or nay, I am still a soldier of Gondor, I must soon leave to take my part in her fate, whatever that may be."

"_Leave_? You can't leave! Who the deuce will be watching over the prisoners if you leave?"

"Sareth will slip food through this opening in your door for as long as she is able; for as long as the City remains free of the Enemy, at any rate. If Minas Tirith falls, then alas! You must fend for yourself."

Fend for herself? _Fend for herself? _What the devil with? She had no blasted wand!

"How can I fend for myself if I'm locked in here with no food and only one miserable pitcher of water?" she asked, horrified at the thought of being abandoned whilst everyone else ran screaming for their lives.

"I will bid Sareth to bring you extra water in the morning if she can, along with whatever food may be spared from the kitchens. 'Tis as much as I can do, and more than I aught, for prisoners do not take precedence in such times. Yet my daughter has a regard for you; she claims you treat her with kindness and respect where others do not, and I have seen this for myself. I shall do what I may for you, for her sake."

How lovely. She might live for a whole other day on the meagre provisions he could provide. Hmm. It might be time to start practising that wandless Alohomora after all!

"I can't wait until morning if you're leaving for battle any second now," she exclaimed. "What if Minas Tirith is overrun by then? Can't you send your daughter to pick up provisions now?"

"Nay! I will not disturb the first rest she has had in many a long hour! If things go ill, it may be the last one she ..."

He stopped abruptly, and Augusta heard the barely controlled emotion in his voice. Vandomar was afraid for his daughter; his last remaining child. But he rallied quickly (strapping fellow that he was!), and it was then she discovered that poor, overworked Sareth hadn't slept for nearly two days.

Come to think of it, the girl _had_ looked rather tired of late.

"She is not alone in this. Very few in the City have been able to sleep since the evil darkness started creeping over Minas Tirith. It covers us so completely, so absolutely, that it strikes fear into the hearts of one and all. And now the Black Riders of Mordor are loosed upon us also!"

This was very disturbing news, but not for the reason Vandomar thought.

"Are you telling me that I – _a prisoner_ - am getting a better night's sleep than anyone else in Minas Tirith?" she demanded. "I hope you're not including the army in that! How the devil do you expect anyone to be fit enough to fight the enemy if they're all too busy fighting their own fatigue? I demand to speak to Denethor at once! Tell him I want to help!"

"Forgive me, Mistress, but I have none to spare to send on your errand. Fare thee well."

With that, Vandomar slid the little wooden barrier back into place, blocking her view of the corridor once more.

"Wait! Where are you going? Tell me what's happening outside! Is Faramir back yet? How far away is the enemy? Where is my nephew? WON'T YOU AT LEAST TELL ME WHAT TIME IT IS?"

The last she yelled, but his footsteps were already receding down the corridor, and then they disappeared altogether. He was gone, leaving her to pace her hated cell once more.

Dash it all!

Half an hour later, the sound of a key turning in the door heralded his return.

"You have visitors, Mistress," he announced solemnly.

"I thought you were leaving," Augusta said accusingly, still miffed enough at him for his earlier abandonment of her to be too thrilled about the prospect of visitors.

"I have just received my final orders and must leave for battle in mere moments," he replied stiffly.

Augusta eyed her grim-face gaoler. "You informed the Steward of my offer, then?"

The man blinked. "Nay, I did not. I am not permitted to leave my post unless ordered, and those orders have only just arrived, as I have already said."

Augusta harrumphed. Touchy, wasn't he? Well, it was no wonder.: the poor chap was off on a one man mission to destroy the forces of Mordor – or what _would_ be a one man mission, given that his colleagues would no doubt be sleeping their way through the attack.

Well, perhaps she could appeal to her visitors to speak with the Steward on her behalf? Perhaps, if she was lucky, Denethor had finally acquiesced and sent her nephew to see her! Archie would do as she asked, even if Vandomar couldn't!

And if it wasn't Archibald visiting her? Well, she'd just have to resort to desperate measures. Visitors equalled hostages, didn't they! And she'd make no bones about taking any if it meant getting out of here and speaking to that idiot Denethor. And if he simply ignored her request and ordered her immediate execution instead? Well, better death by hanging than starvation (it would at least be quicker).

She flexed her fingers, readying them for a spot of wandless magic, if it became necessary, then set about straightening her clothes and trying (rather fruitlessly) to tuck her now scraggly-looking bun into some semblence of order so that she might look as innocent as possible.

Oh, if only she had her wand; she could have made herself presentable in a jiffy instead of having to make do Muggle-style! Why hadn't Vandomar given her some notice? A lady ought to be allowed _some_ time to complete her toilette before guests were escorted into her boudoir – even if the boudoir in question was a prison cell!

Not that she _was_ in the habit of entertaining guests in her boudoir; at least, not since Mr Longbottom died and even then, _he_ hadn't been a guest, and the 'entertainment' had fizzled out more than a decade earlier (after a rather unfortunate incident with pot of hot chocolate and a pair of cursed Muggle handcuffs, from which she'd had to be liberated by a member of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts office. To this day, Augusta still wasn't able to look old Mr Perkins in the face).

There was no more time to fret over her appearance: Vandomar disappeared, making room for the first of her visitors to come rushing into her cell. And a rather unexpected one at that.

"Hullo, Mrs Longbottom!" cried the mini-Muggle she had been briefly acquainted with before her imprisonment. He was wearing a silver and black uniform with a silver helmet, at the sides of which were funny little black wings, and on his hauberk was a white tree. The youth looked very much like a six-year-old playing at soldiers. He offered her a charming little bow. Augusta wracked her memory for his name (not that she would use it).

Oh, what was it again – something to do with apples ...

Ah, yes! Pippin.

"Good evening, young man. And to what do I owe this very great pleasure?" she asked, peering across him (which was conveniently easy) into the dark corridor beyond to see if her strapping nephew was also in attendance.

The hobbit's expression was a very odd mixture of curiosity and trepidation. He bounced on his heels nervously.

"Glorfindel's not here," he said, correctly sensing who she was searching for. "Someone else wants to speak with you – _needs_ to speak with you. Most urgently. But you must promise to hear him out before you start shouting at him."

There was a pleading look on his sweet little face which confused the elderly witch.

"Hear who out?"

"I'll only tell you if you promise to listen to him first. _Please,_ Mrs Longbottom: Neville would want you to."

Neville? What the deuce did the little chap know about her grandson? Had he seen him?

There was no chance to ask because just then, the reason for Pippin's pleas became suddenly clear ...

A tall figure in white swept through the doorway and paused just inside the cell. Long white hair flowed down his back and over his shoulders, blending with the matching beard on his face.

"Gandalf! She hasn't promised yet! Go back outside before she hits you or something."

Sharp eyes rolled briefly toward the ceiling. "You have done what you may, Master Took, and there is no more time to delay. Remain where you are, if you please: there is less chance of the lady slaying me with such a witness." He turned his assessing gaze on her.

"Mrs Longbottom, I am glad to see you are well."

Gandalf the Ghastly!

Augusta bristled.

How _dare_ he presume to visit her! How _dare_ he comment on her appearance (even though she agreed with him – she _did_ look remarkably well, all things considered).

Anger surged through her veins and, pulling herself up to her full height (all five feet one inch of it), she met his eyes with a glare that would melt mithril.

"Of course I'm well, no thanks to you. What the deuce are you doing here anyway, you horrible man? I warn you: if you've come to gloat, I won't stand for it! Just because I don't have my wand doesn't mean I'm helpless."

Lifting a bony finger, she pointed at her water jug and muttered a spell. Pippin cried out in surprise as the jug promptly flew past him; it whizzed its way across the room and emptied its contents over her nemesis before he could react, then soared its empty way back to its little shelf.

Augusta crossed her arms, lifted her head proudly and grunted in satisfaction. That might have been her last jug of water (ever), but she was more than happy to have sacrificed it to such a noble cause.

Poor Pippin obviously did not agree. Chagrined, he grabbed one of her meagre towels and thrust it into the very drippy wizard's hands.

A plethora of emotions raced across her guest's face: shock, anger, frustration, resignation and finally – peculiarly – a flash of humour.

"Perhaps I deserved that," he began, mopping his face and towelling his hair with one hand. "And certainly it could have been worse; I have heard of your exploits in Orthanc." He finished drying himself and threw the towel onto her bed. "But you need not fear that I come to gloat, such a thing is beneath me. Nay, I come for another, more desperate reason: I come to make a request of you."

"_You!_ Make a request of _me?_" said Augusta icily. "I hardly think that you're in a position to ask me for anything!"

"I hardly think that you are in a position to refuse me!" he retorted sharply. Pippin, grimacing, backed as far into the corner of the cell as he could when she squared up to the Wet Wizard.

"And whose fault is that, you silly man? It was you who had me thrown in here in the first place, as if I was some sort of common criminal. You!"

"There was no other choice! I had to act in the best interests of the West."

"Best interests of the West? What utter poppycock! How can it possibly be in the West's best interests to have me – a witch who is willing to help it – thrust under lock and key when its enemy is knocking at the gate?"

"I am more than prepared to answer that question if you would but calm down and _let me speak!_" he shouted, stunning her into silence. Regret clouded his features; he took a deep breath, exhaled it slowly, and resumed in a more civilised tone. "I will answer all your questions, Mrs Longbottom, but time is of the essence, so it must be done with haste. Even as we stand here the Enemy is – as you so accurately described it – _knocking at the gate_, and I would prefer to deal with our unwelcome guests before they attempt to set foot over it. Are you prepared to sit in silence while I satisfy your curiosity?"

As long as her curiosity was _all_ he tried to satisfiy ...

Weighing the desire to throttle him against the desire for answers, Augusta made her choice: she could forgo the pleasure of slaying him for a few more minutes.

Eyeing him as if she would very much like to squelch him underfoot (and she would), Augusta took a deep breath, counted to ten, and – banishing the soggy towel - settled herself on the edge of her poor excuse for a bed.

"Continue," she said with prim graciousness.

Looking very relieved, her current nemesis closed the prison door firmly behind him and strode the few steps toward the only chair in the cell. When he sat, they eyed each other cautiously for a few moments. Pippin remained where he was, his big green eyes flickering nervously from one to the other.

"The war does not go well for the Free Peoples of the West, Mrs Longbottom," began Gandalf gravely. "Indeed, it goes very ill. You may not know it, but the Steward's son was despatched to Osgiliath. Unfortunately the Enemy has since overrun it, and during the retreat across the Pelennor with the rearguard Faramir was struck down."

Dismay swept Augusta. What? That splendid young man with the beautiful teeth was dead? Denethor must be thrilled.

But _she_ wasn't. Anger stirred in her as Gandalf continued.

"I have also learned that the chief Nazgûl – that is, the Witchking of Angmar, Sauron's most terrible servant – leads the charge against us. Alas for us, his agents have already breached the walls of Pelennor and they burn all in their path in their steady surge toward us. The sortie of horsemen we despatched to stave off the Enemy met with some success before it returned, yet not enough. Battle is no longer days away; it is mere hours, if that."

Pippin paled with fear and Augusta silently cursed Gandalf for bringing the poor little lad to Minas Tirith instead of leaving him in Imladris.

Seeing her frown, her 'guest' spared the hobbit a glance; his face creased with regret, and he reached out and patted Pippin's shoulder once, the only comfort he could currently spare.

"I had hoped that Gondor might possess more men than it has with which to defend the City," he continued, facing Augusta once more, "yet it seems I have hoped in vain. Denethor's forces have been stretched too thin these past months, and taken too many casualties in defence of Gondor's outlying posts. And now that the duty to defend the heart of their realm has arrived there are too few to come forth and accept it, valiant though those few may be. The Enemy, however, has amassed a mighty force of Orcs, Men, Trolls and all fell creatures – indeed, their numbers are greater than even I had feared. Even as we speak, his Ringwraiths instil terror and despair amidst our forces! There is yet the possibility that Rohan might assemble a few thousand Riders to aid us - and I, for one, believe that they shall – but they may well arrive too late to do aught more than see the White City fall."

"This is all terribly awful, Mr White -"

And terribly depressing.

"- but I fail to see what any of it has to do with your actions in having me thrown down here. In fact, it sounds to me very much like you need my help more than ever!"

He held up a hand. "You agreed to sit in silence, did you not?"

Damn it, yes: she had.

"I beg your pardon," she said stiltedly. "I will not interrupt again -"

She'd wait until _after_ he was finished to give him a piece of her mind.

"- at least not until you're done. Please continue."

He nodded in relief.

"When last I saw you, you accused me of fabricating my own demise. In fact, I did not. I _did_ fall after defeating the Balrog of Moria -"

Pippin shivered.

"- and I did die also, but – unlike in your world – sometimes there are those in ours who may be brought back, if the Valar will it. Rarely does this occur and only in times of great need, yet occur it does. I am one of those whom the Valar summoned back, and this is the time of great need."

He shifted a little uncomfortably in his chair, then: "Admittedly, I was not _aware_ that they were summoning me back, not initially at least, and thus I tarried with friends longer than I ought to have. That alone is the reason Varda requested the aid of your grandson Neville."

Augusta shot off the bed, remembered that she had promised not to interrupt him, and reluctantly lowered herself back down. It took every ounce of her self control to remain there, and she had to be content with strangling the life out of her poor, defenceless blanket instead of strangling it out of her preferred target. She settled for glowering at him instead.

Had Mr White related his incredible story about death and rebirth two days ago, she would have laughed in his face; but _now _... Well, was it really any more fantastic than her grandson's forehead being the world's most powerful Time Turner (as opposed to the world's most powerful Portkey)? Or travelling centuries into the distant past and having aforementioned grandson possibly sire his very own ancestors? Or was it any more unbelievable than Archibald being an elf – one who had lived for _thousands_ of years already (she ought to perhaps stop calling him 'nephew' and start calling him 'Daddy'. Or Grandfather)?

Not really.

Either way, one thing was certain: if Gandalf had been too busy partying with friends to come home when he had been told to, then Neville's ill-advised adventures in Middle Earth – and therefore her own – were all _his fault_!

As if reading her mind, the rascally wizard cleared his throat and attempted to divert her.

"When I did return, I was taken swiftly to Lothlórien by the Eagle Landroval, and there I remained for a short while to recover from my trials. It was during that time that I had the opportunity to gaze into Galadriel's Mirror ... You have heard of the Lady Galadriel?"

"Archie has mentioned her on occasion, though at the time I thought she was a house-elf running another one of those smashing holiday resorts."

À la Elrond. And she had been making plans to visit it in the summer, too. But now she knew better. Oh, dear! She really _must_ apologise to Elrond, the poor chap! As for Gandalf admiring himself in Galadriel's mirror, he really shouldn't have wasted his time, the vain peacock: s_he_ could have told him he needed a haircut (and she still might).

Her confession temporarily diverted Pippin from his fear and the hobbit laughed aloud, though he was quickly silenced by a quelling look from Gandalf.

"The mirror of Galadriel is no simple object of vanity," continued the wizard, paralleling her thoughts. Augusta tightened her Occlumency shields (just in case). "It is enchanted with the arts of the Elves, and within its depths one may view events past, present or future. Some of these events have indeed occured, while others are only glimpses of a possible future. And therein lies the reason why I bade Denethor to vanquish you to this very dungeon."

What? What on earth was he talking about?

"Do you mean to say that you saw _me_ in this mirror? _Me_ committing an act so terrible that it would warrant imprisonment? Poppycock! I am the most law-abiding citizen I know!"

Unlike _him_.

"You infer incorrectly, Mrs Longbottom. I know of your quest to find your grandson, Neville; indeed, I met the boy a mere week since – nay, do not alarm yourself, he is well! What I saw in the Mirror is that your reunion with him ere the War ends could spell calamity to the very peoples you have endeavoured to assist since your unexpected arrival in Middle Earth."

Surprise warred with shock as Augusta digested this information. Silence fell for a few seconds and she eyed her harbinger of doom a little impatiently.

"Well? Are you going to _tell_ me what you saw, or do I get a prize for guessing correctly?"

Pippin sniggered again. Gandalf glared again. Pippin fell silent.

"The Mirror's visions are ever-shifting, so I cannot tell what the _exact_ event might be that may trigger this calamity; what I _did_ see was you approaching your kin before the walls of Minas Tirith as battle raged all around; I saw you both arguing and then ... and _then_ I witnessed Neville, held captive by the Enemy and tortured, suffering torments so terrible that I shall not name them here, and thus induced into speaking of things he ought not to reveal. After which, darkness falls."

Good heavens! Neville, tortured?

Frank's slack features and vacant stare floated before her mind's eye until fear grabbed Augusta soundly by the heart, squeezing it until she could barely draw breath.

No! That couldn't happen! Not again! She wouldn't allow it! She could not _bear_ it!

So distressed was she by the thought that she barely heard Gandalf muttering an order to Pippin, nor did she register the hobbit's departure and return until he gently prodded her arm.

"Mrs Longbottom, please; take some water."

He pressed the glass into her hand and she automatically raised it to her lips. The cool liquid roused her from her stupor.

"Thank you, young man," she said to Pippin, who hovered near her in concern. "I am perfectly well now. Your damp friend merely stunned me."

Next, she addressed the wizard. "Why didn't you tell me this earlier ... ah, of course; you couldn't, could you? Not without tipping Denethor off to Aragorn's presence. And so you did the next best thing – had me thrown out of all sight. No, there's no need to explain, I'm a reasonable woman and I see now that your options at the time were limited."

Rising, Augusta began to pace the cell, back and forth, back and forth, her mind whirring.

"But why are you telling me this at all? I find it difficult to believe that Denethor gave you, of all people, permission to visit me."

"The Steward remains with his stricken son. He cares for nothing now."

So, the stupid fellow had finally discovered the value of his youngest child, had he? He'd left it disgracefully late!

But she couldn't crow over his miraculous change of heart. Denethor would have to live the rest of his life knowing that Faramir died believing his father hated him. What a terrible, terrible fate to endure, even for an old misery guts like Denethor!

"I see. Well I am sorry for him. So this leaves you to take charge of the war effort, then?"

"Nay, it is the Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth who is in charge of the City's forces. I am here merely in an advisory capacity, as well as to fight when the time comes. And the time has indeed come."

Shrewd blue eyes studied him, thinking of all he had said, and all that he had not.

"So, war is at the door and you have come a-calling," she muttered, using a quote from one of Algie's many historical epics. "Would you like to hear what I think?"

The question was redundant: though her opinion of him was (slowly) rising, he would hear what she had to say whether he liked it or not.

"I think that swaggering idiot Sauron sent a larger army than anyone expected – or a more deadly one; either way it amounts to the same thing: Minas Tirith simply doesn't have enough troops to stand against him. You and I both know this. And there are none more to be had any time soon. I've heard the drums outside and the trumpets blowing. And even from _here_ I can hear those ghastly screeches – it sounds rather like a bagful of kneazles are having their tails yanked directly outside my window. So you, realising that you are in a bit of a fix, have been forced to tell me things you really ought to have mentioned earlier and are now roughly about one minute away from begging for my help. That _was_ the request you wished to make, presumably. Have I missed anything?"

Gandalf gazed at her intently. "Perceptive and succinct, Mrs Longbottom. There is but one matter remaining on which matters now hinge. Yes, I come to ask for your aid, but only in the strict understanding that you remain within the City walls."

Oh, really! Just when she was beginning to think that perhaps he _was_ tolerable (in very small doses).

"What a ridiculous thing to say!" she said in irritation. Her snowy white guest, who had been in the act of rising from his chair, froze. "It goes without saying that I won't leave the city, or do you imagine that I would deliberately place my grandson – or any respectable person – in danger? Of course not!"

Gandalf sighed in relief and straightened. Augusta moved to block his exit, hands planted firmly on hips.

"But let me make one thing perfectly clear, old chap: my grandson would never succumb to torture. _Never_. He is a _Longbottom_, and the Longbottom gift for endurance is legendary."

In her own mind, at least.

"Not that his torture is anything we'll have to worry about," she added determinedly, "because it will never happen if I'm inside the city. However, if it will make you feel any better, I give you my solemn word that I have absolutely no intention of leaving Minas Tirith as long as it might put my grandson in danger. There. Does that satisfy you?"

Blue eyes met grey and silence reigned for a moment, then:

"Indeed it does, Mrs Longbottom. Your foster nephew spoke truly when he said you were a woman of sense, but even then I could not have hoped that you would agree to my terms so swiftly."

"Well, you ought to have more faith in people, oughtn't you?" she replied tartly. "Now that we have established what spiffing friends we are, I believe there is one matter of business still to be resolved."

She held out her hand expectantly. To her vast relief, he plucked her wand from inside his robe and was just about to hand it over when he paused to eye her warily. She sighed.

"My good fellow, I can Summon it directly from your hand _without_ the use of force, but I'm not averse to the idea of slapping you silly. Fortunately for you I'd much rather reserve my violent tendencies for our common enemy; so unless you really wish to receive the hammering of your life I would strongly advise you to _hand it over_!"

Pippin watched them wide-eyed, but much to the hobbit's obvious relief, Gandalf acquiesced.

"Forgive me, madam. I merely wished to assure myself that you would not strike me down with it ... or worse," he said, pointedly covering his chest.

Augusta fought a smile. Ah, someone had been speaking with the Rangers of the North!

She plucked her beloved wand from his hand and felt a thrill of warmth racing up her arms and over her body. Red sparks shot from the tip and she smiled.

Reunited once more! Oh, she hadn't been this happy since Gwendolyn Farragut trusted a rather noisy bout of flatulence that she really shouldn't have, and consequently had to leave the Knitting Bee a full two hours earlier than usual (which served the disgusting woman right for making rude noises in public).

Speaking of rude noises ...

The ghastly screeching had started up outside again, and the sound of it rang through her little window. Wincing in annoyance, Augusta grabbed Spot and jammed it on her head. Ah, that was _much_ better!

"Well then," she said brusquely, donning her coat a second later. "What are we waiting for? We've a nephew to find and an enemy to crush!"

With that, she turned on her heel and waved her wand at the door. It flew open. Without waiting for the others, Augusta marched straight through it into the corridor beyond. It appeared that Vandomar had finally left for good, though her erstwhile kidnapper, Calathor, was still present: he peered at her through the little opening in his door, and his eyes were round with panic.

"Please, kind mistress; liberate me, I beg of you! The Enemy bays at the Gate! If you abandon me, they will find me and slay me! Have pity on me!"

Pity? On him? Of all the nerve!

"Oh, be quiet, you poor excuse for a man. I have no intention of setting a scoundrel such as yourself free. You only have yourself to blame for your current predicament, so you can jolly well sit there and stew. You and your cohort both, wherever he is -"

"I believe he is to be found in the Houses of Healing, Mrs Longbottom," Gandalf informed her. "He escaped from his guards before he could be brought here and broke both his legs whilst rather unwisely attempting to escape over the sixth level wall."

"He landed on a three tiered fountain, instead of the roof of the ale house he was aiming for," offered Pippin helpfully.

The news sent Calathor into full begging mode. "Mistress, I ask your pardon! Please forgive me for my part in your abduction, I had little choice! Hargil coerced me, nay, _forced_ me ..."

Augusta spun angrily on her heel.

"Be quiet, you miserable liar! It was you in that room slapping me senseless, not him. And, if I recall correctly, you were more than happy to do so. How much did you say you would be paid for delivering me to Mordor? Oh, that's right: '... _more gold than any man anywhere has ever dreamed of'._ They were your _exact_ words! So now that you've made your bed, you can jolly well lie in it! And what's more -" she took a dangerous step towards him "if I pass any of your smelly orcish friends on the way out, I have every intention of telling them that there's a juicy bit of manflesh just lying about in the dungeons that's begging to line their stomachs – after I've told them that you offered to exchange intelligence on their master for your own miserable freedom, of course."

Feeling thoroughly disgusted, she left the miserable creature to his fate, and Calathor's screams followed them all the way down the corridor. Beside her, Gandalf and Pippin swapped _very_ apprehensive looks.

"I will escort you to your nephew immediately," said Gandalf, completely thrilled that the tiny terror was not only on _their_ side (Sauron didn't stand a chance) but also that she was no longer furious with _him _(or not furious enough to curse him, at least). "He will inform you of our current defences, which will give you a better idea of how to bolster them with your own magic. But ere you do that, I would ask you to enchant your voice as you did in Rohan; though not to shout at our foes. The Dark Lord has set his Nazgûl upon us, and they circle the Pelennor Field to rob Gondor of hope and spread despair ere battle begins."

Augusta looked up at him and promptly wished she hadn't: from her proximity she could see straight up his rather enormous nose.

"Hmm. Sounds rather like you're dealing with a horde of Dementors. So, you need me to rally the troops, do you? Well, I think I can manage that, and a few things more besides. I only hope Archibald hasn't gone all serial-killer on me again and slaughtered the lot before I get there. It would be _mos_t irritating to have nothing left to do."

Gandalf's eyebrows shot up, and he chuckled before sweeping ahead (rather dramatically) to lead the way. Pippin, feeling very much more positive than he had a half hour earlier, remained by her side, taking two steps for each one of hers (she was a _terribly_ fast walker).

"You're a bit scary, aren't you," he said bluntly. Augusta stifled a smile, amused by his forthright manner, and wondered if it was a trait common to all mini-Muggles.

"Not that I mind, as long as you don't point your staff at me," he said matter-of-factly. "I mean _wand_. As long as you don't point your _wand_ at me."

"Young man, unless you're an enemy spy sent here to disarm me with sheer charm before stabbing me in the back, you have nothing to worry about," she retorted with a twinkle in her eye.

Pippin nodded. "Good. I wish I could stay with you longer but I must go back to the Citadel and prepare to defend it with the other Guards. Lord Denethor made me a Knight you see, so I must do my duty. And I'll do it gladly, of course, even though it frightens me." He winced. "I'm sorry, Mrs Longbottom, I shouldn't have said that I was frightened. It's just that Hobbits aren't used to battle, even though I've learned to cope with it more than most of my own folk. I just wish Faramir hadn't been wounded so dreadfully! And that he was able to take up arms beside me. Still, now I know that you will fight with us, it gives me courage again!"

Augusta's usually strict maternal instincts, mellowed; she couldn't help but be touched by both his loyalty to his friends and his faith in her.

"My dear young man," began Augusta, stilling him with a hand on his arm. Resisting the (nearly overwhelming) urge to bend down and ruffle his curly hair, she settled for smiling at him benevolently. "My dear young man there can be no doubting your bravery. It takes more courage to stand and fight with resolve if you're a frightened novice than it does if you're a seasoned warrior. I must say, I consider it a privilege to fight beside a splendid chap such as yourself!"

The sweet little mini-Muggle puffed out his chest and absolutely _beamed_ at her.

"You know," he began cheerily, after they resumed their journey following Gandalf up the first of the many flights of steps which led back up to the sixth level, "I've decided that I very much like Witches. At first I liked only Wizards, though that was only because I'd never met a Witch before. But now that I have, I think I like you every bit as much, if not more."

Hmph. That wasn't saying very much considering the only wizards he may have met were Sarumanna and Gandalf. True, the latter was proving to be somewhat more trustworthy than the Idiot from Isengard, but still.

"Peregrin Took! Cease this idle chatter! It would be very much to our advantage to reach the surface _before_ the battle begins in earnest." growled Gandalf, who had paused to frown down at the youth, then turned to lope back up the stairs. Augusta scowled up at his retreating form in disapproval.

"Well, I am vastly relieved that you approve of me," she said dryly, as they chugged up the staircase after the very stroppy White Wizard.

The hobbit was completely unfazed by Gandalf's sharp remark. "Oh, I do! Both you _and_ Molly are a bit scary, but only if you're an Orc, which I'm not. So that's good news for me and bad news for ... Mrs Longbottom? Mrs Longbottom?"

Augusta had ground to a standstill five steps beneath him, hardly daring to believe what she had heard.

"Young man, did I hear you correctly? Did you just say 'Molly'?"

He nodded, perplexed. "Yes. Molly. Molly Weasley. She's Neville's Guardian. Do you know her?"

But the Green Witch was far too busy reeling in complete and utter shock to respond.

Molly Weasley. Molly Weasley! _Her_ grandson's guardian!

How _dare_ she!

"Do you mean to tell me that Molly Weasley has been traipsing around Middle Earth with my grandson _this whole time_?" she demanded with a growl that would put even a werewolf to shame. Alarmed by the sudden and drastic change in her mood, Pippin froze.

"Yes," he said, more than a little reluctantly.

Augusta was visibly seething.

_How absolutely DARE she!_

Cavorting around the world as if she was his nearest blood relative when his own _grandmother_ had spent the last few weeks fighting tooth and nail (and every orc in Arda) trying to bring him home to safety. Grieving mother or not, there was no excuse for it! Neville was not Fred!

And speaking of Neville: she _knew_ he had been hiding something, the slippery little beggar! All that nonsense about clearing away garden gnomes and girly chats. _They had been planning this little escapade behind her very back!_

The duplicity of it all! The chicanery! The sheer prevarication!

Outrage warred with hurt inside her.

_Why_ hadn't Neville spoken to her – his own grandmother – about it? She was _family_! He ought to have come to her and told her what he was planning to do (so she could have nipped it in the bud there and then). But no; he'd gone to a stranger instead – well, almost an acquaintance. Oh, all right then; a family friend, but still! Did he not trust his own grandmother any more? Did he not feel as if he could talk to her? Why, she thought they got along swimmingly, particularly since the end of his fifth year at Hogwarts. Could she have gotten it _so_ wrong?

Augusta had never felt so betrayed in all her life.

Angry tears pricked at her eyes and the Longbottom matriarch blinked furiously in an effort to be rid of them. Neville should _never_ have treated her like this, no matter how unapproachable he thought her. She thought she had raised him better than that, but, oh no! _He_ preferred to time-travel with someone other than her. And _Molly_! Encouraging him by agreeing to his hare-brained plan instead of reporting it to her like any sensible person would have!

Jealousy reared its ugly head.

_Molly Weasley!_

Well, it was a jolly good thing for _Molly Weasley_ that there was an entire army for _Augusta Longbottom_ to vent her wrath on before she found her!

Sheer hurt drove her up the stairs past a very alarmed Pippin, sheer humiliation had her barreling past a very astonished Gandalf, and sheer fury sent her flying out onto the sixth level where she was about to make life _extremely_ unappealing for the very unlucky Morgul host.

When she got her hands on _that woman _...

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Author's Note_: Some text taken from The Lord of the Rings, The Return of the King; Book Five, Chapter 4: The Siege of Gondor.

A baby eagle is, of course, an eaglet. But fledgling _sounded_ better ...

Ohmigosh I've done it! I've finally got Augusta out of that bloody cell. YIPPEE!

It was along wait for you, my faithful readers, and I really hope it was worth it. Thanks for your loyalty, folks,

Kara's Aunty ;)


	39. Fright Night

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. and Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

**Credit: **tolkiengateway dot net, lotr wiki/wikia, ageofsail dot net, freewebs dot com / seigeofumbar / corsairsofumbar, harrypotter dot neoseeker dot com, and … oh, so many others that I've lost count. Chapter title reminiscent of a film of the same name, though that was purely coincidental.

**Caution:** One or two sweary words in this chapter, folks.

**Chapter 39**

* * *

_Southern Gondor_

_Third Age 7th_ _March 3019 (Evening)_

After their pow-wow in the war room, Neville and his friends spent nearly an hour ensconced in Elphir's office refining the assault on the Corsairs before setting out to 'give them what for' (as Molly termed it). During that time, they also took care of a few other matters, such as introductions to his younger brothers, Erchirion and Amrothos (yet more tall, dark, grey-eyed, noble Gondorians. Probably brilliant with a sword too. And a massive hit with the ladies. Neville was beginning to get a complex).

"Two Istari," breathed Erchirion in disbelief.

"_Two_ Istari," whispered Amrothos, whose eyes had glazed in shock. "And Mithrandir is now White? The war is won. Praise the Valar, but the war is won!"

Er, no it wasn't. There was the tiny matter of pounding the superbly evil Dark Lord Sauron into dust first …

"Don't get too excited. There's still a Corsair fleet to tackle. And possibly another army heading down the Anduin. Not to mention an assault on Minas Tirith."

And a Ring to destroy, though Neville didn't mention this. He fervently hoped Frodo and Sam were still safe.

"Let's just take one battle at a time, eh?"

But Amrothos had just discovered the enchanted tapestry behind his father's desk and was staring at it in open-mouthed wonder.

"Observe!" he said, pointing excitedly. "The ship moves! The Men upon it … BY THE VALAR! They are WAVING at me in greeting!"

And so they were. Several of the tiny figures had stripped to the waist (it was a hot and sunny day) and were hanging off the rigging, waving their tunics madly, whilst others were lying spread out on the deck, soaking up the rays. Amrothos' eyes were boggling in disbelief and delight, and his cries had drawn Halbarad, Erchirion and Minacil, who now crowded around the tapestry in deepest fascination.

"Gentlemen! You may admire it at your leisure once we have finished discussing the matter at hand!" exclaimed Elphir in exasperation. His tone effectively banished their raptures and all returned to his desk sporting rather sheepish expressions.

Neville suggested that, though there was no hope of reinforcements from other towns arriving before the next day, that they must nevertheless be alerted of developments and given the chance to muster a defence of their own in case they, too, came under attack.

"Alas, I fear it is too late for that! To Angbor, Lord of Lamedon, we can send naught," Erchirion informed them. "We have news that he has already gathered his main force; they are now in the port of Linhir and that has since been besieged by the fell folk of Umbar and Harad. If he has fallen or been captured by the Enemy then they too will learn of our strategies and would undoubtedly inform the master of Mordor. As for Pelargir, it has already fallen."

Well, that took care of Lamedon and Lebennin, didn't it? He was already too late to warn them! Aragorn would not be happy.

Shaking away his regret, the teenager concentrated thereafter on modifying and refining their plans for the Corsair assault. Once it had become apparent that the Corsairs kept slaves, both he and Molly were reluctant to start blasting away at ship hulls in case they wounded _them_. It had thus been decided that – although he would still ferry men on board under a Disillusionment Charm – he would deposit them instead on the main deck while Molly distracted the men of Umbar on her broomstick. After that, it was a only a matter of accessing the lower deck, freeing the slaves and letting them take care of their tormentors. As they could only take a small contingent of men, Molly and Neville would have to get creative with the remaining ships to ensure they didn't proceed where their stricken sisters could not follow.

Simple, right?

And so it was, for the most part …

**XXX**

Under cover of darkness, Molly Apparated a party of twelve men including Neville, Halbarad, Elphir's brothers and Minacil to the chosen outpost in groups of three. After the Gondorians recovered from the shock of being squeezed into near senselessness (''Twas worse than being coddled by my Naneth and not near as pleasant!' muttered one soldier who spent a full minute ensuring his ears were still intact), Neville and Molly began scouting for the enemy fleet. For over two luckless hours they swept the surprisingly fertile coastline of Harondor (which the young wizard had thought was supposed to be a barren wasteland), zooming both up and down the water on their brooms. They were beginning to worry that the Corsairs had made it farther up the Sea than initially thought when Molly spotted the imposing black galleys approaching with their dark sails billowing in the chilly wind.

Returning to the outpost, Neville landed to impart the news.

"Right," he began, "they're about six miles away to the south -"

One of the Gondorians whose name he couldn't recall interrupted. "Would that be nautical miles, Master Wizard?"

Was there a difference?

"Em, don't know. Let's just say they're about half an hour away as the broomstick flies -"

Several men eyed his Cleansweep dubiously then turned green at the thought of staying on it for so long.

"- so Molly will Apparate us a bit closer -"

His companions did not look cheered by the thought.

"- and after that I'll Disillusion you, but only when I'm about to take each of you out to your respective targets."

Otherwise he'd never find them.

"Once we've landed, you dismount, get to the engine room, incapacitate the bad guys, steal their keys and free the slaves."

"Engine room?" queried Erchirion, bemused.

Neville groaned, wishing he could stop thinking about ships in terms of the Star Destroyer Enterprise. Dean had a lot to answer for ...

"The ship's propulsion room," he amended, though it came out more as a question.

More blank stares.

"The room where all the ruddy rowers row!"

Wow. A tongue twister.

Comprehension dawned en masse. With a grateful sigh, he proceeded.

"Now, the slaves might be terrified of an apparently disembodied voice saying it's there to help them, so gauge their mood and either tell them the truth or – if they don't believe you ..."

Crikey. Then what?

"If they don't believe you just tell them you're a friendly ghost or something, and that you've been sent by the Valar to help them win back their freedom, or whatever else you think'll work best. They won't have any weapons, so you'll have to get to the weapons room ..."

"Armoury," supplied someone helpfully.

"Fine. The _armoury_. Get them there as soon as you can, arm them, then set them loose on the main deck. Can you all swim?"

Ten pairs of eyes narrowed in affront.

"We live by the sea!" declared Amrothos, raising his proudly.

"But the fleet's a bit far out."

"Further than one mile?"

"Normal or nautical?"

Amrothos scowled at him.

"Er, no. About half that."

"That is no distance at all for a hardy Swan Knight! We are part fish, are we not?"

Assuming (hoping) it was a rhetorical question, Neville cleared his throat and barrelled on.

"Great, 'cos once the slaves have engaged the enemy – assuming they will - you'll need to swim for shore. Molly and I might not be able to locate you when the fighting is in full swing, not when you're Disillusioned, anyway. But you'll have to be careful to avoid smacking into the other ships in the fleet."

"We know the risks, young Wizard," Erchirion assures him. "And fear not, the slaves _will _fight. They will want to avenge themselves on their tormentors – I know I would."

"And if we prefer to stay and fight side by side with those we have laboured to liberate?" asked the soldier beside Minacil. Again, it was Erchirion who responded.

"Nay. We will not leave men here who will be required for the march east. As it is there may be neither time nor opportunity to free all the slaves we would wish, though we can at least liberate more than half of them. Our Istari friends will contend with the remaining vessels. Once we have each completed our individual tasks, we must all return to shore. Is that understood?"

Everyone nodded.

With that matter resolved, Erchirion, Minacil and the outspoken soldier took Molly's proffered arms and the trial of Disapparition began once more.

Their next chosen spot was on a cliff top overlooking the sea. Lights twinkled in a small fishing settlement a mile from the shore and – given that they were in disputed territory - everyone had to take cover behind a copse of woods which ended near far side of the cliff. From their new vantage point the Corsair fleet was clearly visible from the shore, just as Neville had reported. Each ship in the convoy was no less than thirty-five feet long and boasted large junk-like sails which caught the wind, sending it racing ever northwards.

Thirteen pairs of eyes tracked the fleet's progress for a few moments before everyone converged around the Istari.

"I'm ready when you are, dears," announced Molly to the company at large as she re-mounted her broomstick.

Neville faced his (anxious looking) passengers-to-be.

"All right: who's first?"

Predictably, Halbarad stepped forward (manly git that he was). The power ranger eyed Neville's borrowed Cleansweep apprehensively.

"I had not realised earlier how narrow it is," he began, "nor how frail it looks. Indeed, it does not look strong enough to hold us both. Are you certain this will work, son of Longbottom?"

"Bit late to be worrying about that now we've agreed on a plan of action, isn't it," retorted Neville dryly. He was still trying to get used to keeping _himself_ on the broom, let alone a passenger into the bargain; but he was committed to the job ahead and sheer determination had kept him on it so far. A little positivity from the ranger would go a long way toward boosting his confidence further.

He tapped (whacked) Halbarad on the head with his wand to initiate the Disillusionment Charm then performed the same ritual on himself. Cries of astonishment rang out as they both began to disappear from the head down.

"Shh! You'll bring the villagers up here with that racket!" scolded Molly. Silence fell immediately.

There came next the struggle of seating an invisible passenger, followed swiftly by the awkward intimacy of having big hairy bloke arms snaking their way round his waist (how Neville would have preferred to feel Éowyn's slender limbs clinging to him; perhaps with her golden head resting on his back as she whispered something romantic like 'My hero!'), and finally there was the trial of finding the right balance to keep two people safely on the broom. That achieved, the Disillusioned pair were soon airborne.

They flew low over the surface of the sea so that Molly would remain as inconspicuous as possible to any watching from the shore.

"She'll attack first, then we're on!" cried Neville, having to shout to be heard above the roar of wind in their ears.

Halbarad, who was far too busy staring in horror at the water racing away beneath his feet, opted not to respond, Deeming it wiser not to look at the unnatural sight beneath him, he closed his eyes, tightened his grip on Neville's waist and buried his face in the boy's cloak.

"Tell me when we arrive," was all he said.

It wasn't long: the brooms sped over the water and within minutes they were mere yards from the enemy convoy.

"Halbarad, get ready!" hissed Neville, trying to shake the man off his back. The broom swerved violently in response, almost tipping them both off, and he had to fight to regain their balance.

"Eru! Was there no easier way of alerting me than that?" demanded his shaken passenger after the Cleansweep had steadied itself.

He ignored him. The thump of his own pounding heart had replaced the sound of rushing wind in his ears. They coasted nearer the vessels, close enough now to spy the row of long oars dipping in and out of the water at a furious pace: combined with the wind in their black sails, it sent each ship fairly zooming across the water.

There did not appear to be the two hundred strong crew on board that Neville had been expecting, leading him to the conclusion that the greater complement had taken to their beds for the night. Only a skeleton crew moved about on the main deck; some manipulating the rigging to better catch the wind, some shouting orders which others scurried to obey. Above the mainmast was a basket and within it a small figure swayed from side to side with the motion of the ship, trying valiantly to act as a lookout. Minacil had already explained that to be stationed in this basket – known as the crow's nest – was considered a punishment on most ships as it was at a point far away from the vessel's centre of mass, and thus any small movement of the ship was magnified.

"Even the most experienced of sailors may be struck with a violent sickness of the sea up there," he had informed them when they were planning the assault earlier.

Good. Served them right for being enemies as far as Neville was concerned.

He slowed the Cleansweep as they came within fifty yards, then hovered while waiting for Molly to kick the plan into action. Brown eyes turned north and he just caught sight of her whizzing past the lead vessel; within seconds, loud cries split the air, followed by the bright burst of a Lumos.

"AHOY THERE!" Molly shouted under the power of a Sonorus charm. Her voice boomed through the still night with all the power of a cannon burst. Men began to yell in shock as they caught sight of a lone woman floating above them in mid air.

"Go on, Molly," muttered Neville in encouragement (not that she could hear it). "Show them what you've got."

She did.

"AHOY THERE, YOU ROTTEN BEGGARS! I KNOW WHAT YOU'RE UP TO, TRYING TO SLITHER UP THE ANDUIN LIKE A SLIMY KNOT OF SNAKES. _I DON'T THINK SO!_ YOU'VE GOT ONE CHANCE TO TURN AROUND AND HEAD BACK WHERE YOU CAME FROM BEFORE I START HACKING YOUR BOATS INTO FIREWOOD!"

A mass stampede began further up the fleet as those on the night watch raced to the bows of the lead ships to peer at the extraordinary sight ahead. Exclamations of confusion and fear rang through the night as those at the fore watched her whizzing back and forth, back and forth, like an enormous angry red bee.

And unbeknownst to them (though not for much longer) this particular bee could also sting.

Molly aimed her wand and shot a jet of coloured light at the lead ship, where it hit the mainmast. There was a scream, followed by a huge _crack,_ then more screaming as the mast crashed onto the main deck, crushing everything in its wake. Corsairs aboard scattered like the DA from a Carrow, drawing knives, whips, and cursing and yelling in terror.

"THAT WAS A WARNING!" bellowed the Weasley matriarch in a voice honed by years of scolding naughty offspring. "DON'T EVEN _THINK_ ABOUT SAILING ANY FURTHER NORTH OR I'LL START BLASTING AT HULLS!"

Shocked onlookers in neighbouring vessels began to back away from their bows in panic; their captains, notable in thick leather armour, cried out for posts to be manned and archers to ready a response, though few paid them heed. In the crows' nests above, others jumped wildly from their baskets, launching themselves at the rigging in an effort to get as far away from the masts before the strange new enemy spotted them too.

Back in the rear flank of the enemy convoy, confusion reigned. They could hear what was happening ahead, but they couldn't_ see_ it. Everyone present was straining at the light ahead.

Which was just fine by Neville.

"Here we go," he called as, somewhere up ahead, another mast came crashing down (the enemy, it seemed, wasn't being quite as co-operative as Molly would wish). Halbarad gripped him a little tighter and the Cleansweep shot into motion. Within a minute they landed amidship of one of the rear vessels: there wasn't a soul in sight, though dozens of voices raised in anger echoed back from the prow.

Halbarad slithered gratefully off the broom and there came a whooshing ring of metal as he drew his sword. "I will take the companionway below deck," he whispered. Neville, who had been glancing nervously from side to side for enemy agents, frowned.

Companionway? What the heck was that? _Where_ the heck was that?

At that moment, the pounding of running feet disturbed them and both had to flatten themselves against the side of the deck as first one, then another, then _scores_ of weathered men with unkempt dark hair seemingly poured out of the floorboards. Many of them hauled on shirts or thick leather hauberks as they stampeded past, grumbling aloud that their rest had been disturbed, whilst others drew or waved wicked looking curved knives.

"All hands on deck!" bellowed someone. "We are under attack! Man your posts and ready your weapons!"

"The stairs!" added Halbarad, as the last of the Corsairs sprinted from the opening and swarmed either fore or aft as their positions required. "The companionway is the stairway yonder."

Blimey. Why hadn't he just said that in the first place?

"The majority of the enemy is now above deck: once below, it will be an easy matter for me to incapacitate those remaining who supervise the unfortunates rowing their ship – there will be no more than four -"

Four?

"I thought you said there would only be _two_!" he hissed in irritation.

"I said there may be between two _and_ four."

"But what if -"

"Do not fuss, Neville! They will be unable to see me! And I also am a ranger: I can move with the stealth of an elf when I must; none will know I am here until it is too late. Once incapacitated I will take their keys and liberate the slaves."

"Okay. Be careful, all right?"

A warm hand descended on Neville's shoulder (or would have if Halbarad had been able to see him properly. Instead, the teenager got a whack on the nose). "Do not fear, my young friend. I will remain as safe from harm as is possible. Now go!"

Rubbing his aching nose, Neville obeyed. He whizzed back to the shore and within ten minutes had deposited Minacil on the next ship.

Amid the roar of Molly's enchanted voice, the _crack_ of splintering wood, and the screaming of angry voices, the teenage wizard continued his mission. During his fourth deposit (Amrothos), Neville heard the ruckus of stampeding feet and infuriated voices. He glanced at one of the ships to the rear and discovered that the men Halbarad had freed were now storming onto the deck and racing hither and thither to attack their hated captors. Caught unaware, many of the Corsairs were killed before they could rally themselves well enough to fight back.

It was chaos.

One by one, as late evening turned into night, the same pattern repeated itself. Molly dodged arrows - and some of the firebombs that Elphir had mentioned during their council - whilst blasting away at masts and rigging; Neville ferried a Gondorian to an enemy vessel and whizzed back to shore for the next one. The commotion at sea had drawn a crowd of spectators from the nearby village to the shore, forcing the remaining Swan Knights to retreat further into the trees until they too were Disillusioned. A sensible precaution, to be sure though it did mean that a rather peeved Neville had to hunt for them at one point because no one dared raise their voice to attract his attention in case they also drew the gaze of hostile villagers.

Halbarad and some of the others had already reached shore by the time Neville returned to collect the last man. Though still under the Disillusionment charm, they had to snake their way silently around the cliff face to climb to the top of the hill so the locals wouldn't hear them, and he only knew they had arrived when the sound of motion through the trees disturbed him as he was about to Disillusion a very anxious knight named Arandil (who was desperate to board an enemy vessel and cause 'mischief untold').

Wand and sword were drawn as both young men circled the small clearing.

"Fear not, son of Longbottom. 'Tis but I, Halbarad, and some of our other companions returning. The slaves are freed and battle is now rife throughout the fleet!"

Arandil began hopping on the spot. "Come, young Wizard! My companions-in-arms have already completed their Quests while I have yet to start mine. I am anxious to free some men of my own."

Rolling his eyes, Neville ordered the others to stay where they were and he would reverse the charm which concealed them when he returned.

"Just in case the villagers get a little too curious," he explained.

"Why not take us back to those ships whose slaves have yet to be freed?" suggested (what may have been) Amrothos.

"If you recall, I was going to do that myself after I drop off Mr Let-Me-At-Them, here. It'll save having to keep coming back."

"You might accompany me, Wizard, when we reach my ship. That way you may familiarise yourself with the vessel for when you continue alone."

Neville thought Arandil's suggestion to be wise and so he agreed.

"When everyone else has returned I'll signal Molly and we can go back to Dol Amroth, okay?" he said, not waiting for an answer as he and his final passenger whizzed away.

The flight across the water was now less about stealth and more about speed. The Corsairs, having now twigged to the fact that some foul enemy was freeing their slaves whilst the dreadful wench on the floating tree distracted them, had begun to barricade the companionways. When Neville arrived on the next ship to deposit Arandi, he had to Stun at least five guards before they could pass. Down a narrow stairway they sneaked and through a short corridor before reaching another ladder. Even before descending it they heard the cruel voice of the slavemasters threatening dire punishment if the men didn't row faster. Several times the crack of a whip on flesh sounded as they chanted '_One and two and three and four; Row or you will live no more!_'.

The gits!

Itching to hex them, he was only stilled by Arandil's whisper.

"The armoury is by the bulkhead on the deck above, to the left of the companionway," said the elder man. "Within it you shall find such things as daggers and spears, for they are the main weapons of choice. When you free the slaves, see them armed and set them forth upon their tormentors. Now, go!"

"I might as well stay and help ..."

"No! Go now! Even a moments delay could mean the difference between a life of slavery and one of liberation!"

Seeing his point, Neville left Arandil to his much anticipated adventure and sodded off back up the corridor and out into the night air. Mounting his broom, he barely got airborne when he heard Molly's scream of outrage.

"YOU DESPICABLE BASTARD! HOW COULD YOU? _HOW COULD YOU!_"

Curiosity warred with concern as he put his own mission on hold and flew up toward the front of the fleet. Tall fingers of flame danced up the rigging of one of the ships near the lead vessel, setting the night aglow in hues of orange and red: it seemed that the Corsairs' firebombs had not all hit their intended targets. Men screamed with panic and threw themselves willy nilly into the sea. Further down, more ships fought to turn port or starboard to avoid nearing it; some of the ships' captains had even managed to rally their men into a defence of sorts and archers now lined decks firing volley after volley of arrows into the night air.

"DON'T YOU DARE TOUCH THEM! DON'T YOU DARE, OR IT'LL BE THE LAST THING YOU EVER DO!"

There must have been some sort of verbal response (though Neville didn't hear it) because Molly screamed in rage. Desperate to see what was happening, but not fancying his luck against all the missiles now flying through the air, he guided his Cleansweep down and flew parallel with the outer hulls of one ship after another, and in this manner was able to moved safely up the fleet. Within a minute he caught sight of the Weasley matriarch swooping wildly at a vessel directly ahead: it was the ship with the burning rigging.

And the crew obviously hadn't learned their lesson, because what remained of them were shooting flaming arrows and throwing long spears at her in rapid succession, and she had to duck through acrid smoke to avoid them. Amidst the cacophony of shouting and yelling, one voice rose above the others. A deep, cruel, baritone which jeered at the woman above, daring her to fulfil her promise.

"I know what you are doing also, Sorceress! You have torched my sails beyond repair and shattered my oars beyond use! Hah! I know your game, flying wench! You seek not only to thwart our journey, but also to divert us while your allies steal our slaves! Well, my lady; you need not resort to such underhand methods. If you want them so badly, then here: I make you a gift of them."

There came the unmistakeable sound of grown men begging, _pleading_ for their lives, followed by a burst of cruel laughter, then:

_Splash! Splash! Splash-splash-splash-splash-splash!_

Forgoing stealth, Neville aimed his broom straight up and soared over the aft end of the ship and across to the port side, where he saw a line of ill clad men falling one by one into the dark waters beyond. A fierce looking Corsair captain in thick leather mail pointed at them and shouted an order to a small group of archers, half of which promptly stopped shooting at Molly and aimed their bows towards the water instead.

The captain was killing the slaves!

Incensed, Neville fired a jinx at the arrows as they loosed from the bows; they shot outwards instead of downwards then turned quickly back toward the ship. It was a sight which sent the Corsairs fleeing, though not fast enough. Many were felled before they took three steps.

"NEVILLE! THE SLAVES! GET THE SLAVES. THE POOR DEARS ARE STILL CHAINED TOGETHER!"

Needing no further command he zoomed towards the water; but he was at a loss how to save the blokes because they had already sunk beneath the waves.

What to do?

"_Accio slaves!" _he cried, pointing his wand at the water below.

It didn't work: the spell would only summon objects, not people. Desperately scanning the surface for any sign of life, Neville wracked his brains until the answer came to him.

"_Levicorpora!"_

Instantly, the men who had been so callously thrown into the water came springing back out, choking and thrashing as they hovered in mid-air.

"_Anapnoea maxima," _he roared, not waiting to see if it had worked before soaring away with the long line of chained souls in tow: already more archers had taken aim in their direction and were letting loose another volley of arrows. Neville had no choice but to keep flying and hope their weapons wouldn't find purchase:his concentration was already stretched thin holding the hovering spell whilst trying to zoom back to shore. Behind him, the maniacal laugh of the cruel captain could just be heard above the noisy battle until it was silenced forever by a huge _BOOM!_

The force of the explosion was too much. Taken completely by surprise, Neville rocked for a second on his broom, then fell plunging into the water below. With his concentration broken, his Levitation Charm failed and all his newly rescued friends returned to the inky depths they had so recently vacated. A few seconds later, Neville resurfaced, wand in hand, coughing and heaving violently. Using his best doggy paddle, he turned about to see what had happened and found that the port side of the ship he'd been fleeing from had been gouged by a blast of magic so powerful, it sent the vessel careening to the right and straight into the path of another.

Screams rang out as they collided violently, the second ship was struck full on its port hull by the stern of the other and it rocked wildly; bodies were flung out to sea and – as the mast of the burning ship hit its sister - it sent fire racing along the other vessel.

The fleet was now in utter chaos.

And so was Neville. He couldn't see the men he had tried to save, and he couldn't see his Cleansweep either!

"_Accio broom!" _he shouted, trying desperately not to sink again while he held up a hand. Though he couldn't see it, he felt the broom make contact and his hand closed around it automatically. Pulling it through the water was a struggle, but he managed to mount it nonetheless and was airborne within moments. He swooped desperately above the sea, teeth chattering with cold, trying to gauge where the slaves had fallen: it was no easy task given the carnage around them, but his luck held when he spotted an arm surfacing and trying to grasp at something, _anything _with which to stay afloat.

"_Levicorpora! Anapnoea!"_

Once again the chained line of dripping former captives zoomed up from beneath, but some of them were not responding to his Anapnoea spell as well as they had the last time, and dread filled Neville's heart at the sight of their limp bodies hanging in the air.

Desperate to get them to shore – and thus to help - he turned about and kept on flying until he reached the cliff. Stunned villagers shrieked in terror and fled the shore after catching sight of at least twenty men at various levels of consciousness whizzing through the air._ Unaided_ (apparently)!

Not even bothering to hide any more (because the game was surely up) he guided the men safely down before landing. A quick wave of his wand and their chains fell free.

"Halbarad!" he yelled, ignoring those who were stirring and rushing straight to those who did not. "Halbarad! _Hal-bloody-barad!_"

Where the hell _was_ he?

Dropping by one of the stricken forms, Neville pointed his wand directly at the unconscious man's throat. "_Anapnoea! Anapnoea, _for Merlin's sake! _Anapneoa!"_

Somewhere behind him, the rustle of many footsteps over grass alerted the teenager to the fact that he had company.

"Neville? Is that you?"

It was Halbarad, though Neville didn't answer: he was too busy frantically trying to clear his patient's airway. But no matter what he did, the man remained blue and unresponsive and soon, there was no denying it: the poor bloke was dead.

His companions had already realised what was happening and some of them were performing similar rituals among the rescuees when Neville moved onto the next, an old man who looked to be in his late seventies. There was an unhealthy greyish tinge to his skin and his lips were already blue. Pointing his wand at the man's throat, Neville again evoked the Anapnoea spell. Again there was no response.

"Come on!" he yelled, shaking the unconscious form. Anger surged through him: it wasn't fair! Why was he not waking up?

"_Anapnoea! Anapnoea! Anapn ..."_

The body before him suddenly jerked and, deeply relieved, Neville lifted him into a seated position while he coughed and spluttered.

"What happened to them, Neville? Why could they not stay and fight?" This from Amrothos, though he couldn't be sure because the man was still Disillusioned.

"One: their ship was on fire. Two: their git of a captain shoved them overboard so we couldn't free them!" he growled.

Someone swore colourfully, though, as it was in Elvish Neville hadn't a clue what they were saying.

"Then you did well to retrieve so many safely." That was definitely Halbarad, but he spoke with a conviction Neville didn't share, particularly because his horrified gaze now lingered on a further three men whom the Gondorians had been unable to revive.

All around him, other liberated men were being roused and assisted to their feet. Most of them were yet too stunned after their ordeals to register that their saviours were invisible, but one or two of the more alert among them had no such problems.

"Aargh – who are you? What are you? _Where_ are you?"

Explanations were given, though not accepted. The former slaves were simply too distressed to process them.

"Neville you must lift this enchantment: our new friends fear us because they cannot see us."

As there was no point in remaining Disillusioned any longer, Neville obliged. Awkwardly grabbing his wand with his left hand, he tapped first his own head, then aimed his wand in the direction of Halbarad's voice: both men reappeared within seconds. Soon, everyone else had identified their positions by calling out their names he lifted the charm from them too. He counted them and quickly realised there was one missing.

"Minacil has fallen," Erchirion informed him tonelessly. The young lord's face was grave and sad. "He was struck by an arrow whilst leaving the ship and barely made it back to shore. I found a trail of his blood when I arrived and followed it halfway up the cliff. He was barely alive but managed to hail me. He now lies in yonder clearing. We attempted to revive him, but …"

He broke off, swallowed his emotion then said:

"Alas for my brother, his friend! Alas for Dol Amroth, her captain is dead! Yet he died in battle and with honour, as he would have wished it. That may be of some comfort to his widow, no matter how bittersweet."

The news came as another blow to Neville so soon after realising the loss of four of those he had helped to rescue, and he clenched his fists in frustration whilst swallowing the lump in his throat. Of course, he had _known _there might be losses in this endeavour; but it was one thing to _know_ and quite another to _see_.

"Right. Right," he muttered numbly, still clutching the old man in one arm. He felt eyes on his face and met the stranger's exhausted brown gaze with his own. "Don't worry. You're safe now. You're all safe now. We came to help you. We're friends from Dol Amroth. I'm Neville, a wizard, that's Halbarad-"

He indicated the ranger with a jerk of his thumb.

"- and the rest will introduce themselves while I'm away. Halbarad, could you help Mr … erm … could you make sure this gentleman is all right, please. I'll be back soon."

"Be back soon? Where exactly do you imagine that you are going, young Wizard?" demanded his friend, crouching beside him. His tone was so reminiscent of Gran that Neville almost smiled as he surrendered his charge and sprang back up.

"I'm going back to help the others," he replied, shivering again. Touching his wand to his shirt, he muttered a spell that dried his clothes instantly. "We might have lost a few here, but there are still other slaves to be freed."

Halbarad removed his cloak and wrapped it around the old man before leaving him to rest for a few minutes. He then rose, took Neville by the arm, and marched him the paltry few feet to the cliff edge, where he then pointed out across the sea with a long finger.

"Look yonder, son of Longbottom. The battle is over. We have achieved what we came to do: the Corsair threat is no more."

"Halbarad ..."

"Did I not ask you to look yonder, son of Longbottom?"

Huffing in vexation, he did as instructed.

The sight which met his eyes was one of carnage: the night sky was a riot of colour as at least two vessels raged with fire. What had once been ships were now little more than infernos gliding randomly across the water. Another vessel lay keeled on its side, broken by a sister who had inadvertently rammed it in her haste to escape. Still more limped along with no masts and no slaves to row them. Though they could not hear the cries on board from where they stood, both Neville and Halbarad had seen the faces of slaves newly freed: men ailing from years of maltreatment and hard labour were reinvigorated by their sudden, inexplicable freedom and - driven by sheer hatred – gladly rampaged through the ship, slaughtering their captors without mercy.

"The battle is over, Neville. We need do no more now but return home and ready ourselves for the next."

"But there are other slaves ..."

Hands grabbed him firmly by the shoulders and turned him around.

"Yes, there are others, but we cannot free them all. Not now. The Corsairs are now wise to our tactics. If you return to their ships, there may be other captains willing to sacrifice the innocent merely to spite us. Do you wish to take that chance?"

"But I can save them! I _know_ I can!" He pointed to the old man he had revived. "He's only a few years younger than my Grandad was when he died. Who knows how long he's been on that bloody ship? Merlin, Halbarad ..."

He was interrupted by a whoosh of air above them announcing the arrival of Molly; she landed a few feet away and, after a quick glance to check he was well, headed straight for the others. Neville met Halbarad's concerned grey eyes once more.

"He should be at home right now playing with his grandchildren and congratulating himself on a life well lived, not whipped to within an inch of his life and lying half-dead on a cliff top! I don't want to leave anyone else with those hairy gits to end up like that, too. I know what to do now, Halbarad – I can't just leave them!"

But the ranger was having none of it. "Nay! I tell you we are done here. We none of us wish to abandon them to their fate, but it would be foolish to attempt any further rescues. It would endanger you _and_ them. Furthermore ..."

"Furthermore you're leaving if I have to Stun you and carry you over my back!"

It was Molly. She stormed over, her red tresses dancing wildly in the wind, and glared at Neville with a very dangerous gleam in her eyes.

"Look at you: you're exhausted! So there's no point in doing anything else now when you're as likely to fall off your broomstick and drown as anything else. What help will you be to anyone then? Besides, you don't have to worry about the other slaves. I blasted all their oars to bits and they have no sails or masts or whatever you call them, so they're not going anywhere. And already some of those we've freed have got control of their boats ..."

"Ships, Lady Molly."

"What? Oh, yes, I meant that. _Ships_. So they'll soon be able to board other ships, take care of the last of the Corsairs and free their friends."

Her tone softened a little and, moving forward, she cupped his face in her hands. "We've done all we can, dear. We need to go back to Dol Amroth now, all right? It's been a long day and you need your rest if we're to do it all again tomorrow."

Neville fought the urge to object as he looked down at her dirt-streaked coat and tired face. She smiled at him fondly and he thought of how much he had come to rely upon her, and how quickly he had become used to her kind motherly features. Overcome by a wave of familial affection, he gently tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

"You were brilliant out there, do you know that?"

"We were _all_ brilliant out there," she said, crushing him in one of her wonderful hugs. When they parted, she straightened her coat and cleared her throat. "Now then, the journey back will be longer than the one here because there are more people to Disapparate with. So, if you boys would just keep an eye out in case those villagers suddenly find their spines and decide to dare the hill, I'll get started."

It took over an hour and a half for her to side-along Apparate everyone in groups of threes: the men they had rescued were either ill or confused (or superstitious) and time was need to placate and reassure them that they were now among friends. Those who had died, Neville buried with the use of magic.

Fortunately, the process of departure was not disturbed by hostile natives. The villagers beneath very wisely did not discover their spines, and those few who thought about it were quickly repelled by Neville and half a dozen Gondorians with the use of another Disillusionment charm and a bag of Weasleys' Ghoulish Gumdrops (provided by Molly). The matronly witch returned one last time to collect Halbarad and Erchirion (who carried the body of Minacil) and Neville joined them on the cliff to Disapparate himself back to Dol Amroth. With a final glance out at the ruined Corsair fleet, he turned on the spot and left them to their fate.

And he was heartily glad to see the back of them.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Author's Note_: This was originally going to be a longer chapter with much more in it, but I got sidetracked by those ruddy Corsairs! Neither battles nor ships are my forte, and it was a struggle to mesh the pair convincingly. In the end I just couldn't wait to get this over and done with. It's very late (or early, rather) and I'm tired, so any glaring errors I'll fix in the morning. Goodnight!

Thanks for reading,

Kara's Aunty ;)


	40. Marble Men & Battle Plans

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. and Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

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**Chapter 40**

* * *

_Dol Amroth_

_Third Age 8th-9th_ _March 3019_

On their return to Dol Amroth, the small Gondorian contingent's victory over the Corsairs was hailed as a resounding success by Elphir, though the prince's congratulations were tempered by his grief upon learning of Minacil's death. After the freed slaves were shown to the Healing House, both Imrahil's heir and his previously unseen daughter, the Princess Lothiriel, offered their deepest gratitude to the company.

"Never before in the history of Dol Amroth have so few won a victory over so many," Elphir stated, eyeing them solemnly. "Not only is the threat from the Corsairs utterly crushed; it has been achieved with the loss of only one of our own. Alas for Minacil, my friend! He shall be honoured for his sacrifice, and his family will now and ever fall under the personal protection of the House of Elphir of Dol Amroth, to this I swear. As for you, my brave friends, you shall be honoured also for your deeds; but that must wait until another time. Tomorrow we depart for the long march East. Whether or nay we return depends on whether or nay the Enemy crosses our path; yet if that happens, I know that each and every one of you are more than able for any challenge they present. Go now to your rest, Swan Knights. We shall convene in the City square at the stroke of the seventh hour."

The seven men offered respectful bows and departed, leaving Neville, Molly, Halbarad, Erchirion and Amrothos with the prince and princess. The latter glided over to her siblings and clasped each of them in turn.

"Praise Eru that you are returned to us safely, my brothers! I could not have borne it had aught happened to either of you!"

Not willing to intrude on their family reunion (even if Lothiriel was the most stunning creature he had seen since Éowyn), Neville and his companions shuffled to the side of the office. Elphir approached them, his smiling mien tinged with sadness.

"I'm sorry about Minacil, sir," offered Neville. "I mean, I'm sorry for your loss: I know he was your friend as well as your captain."

Elphir nodded. "I thank you, young Wizard. That he was indeed. A braver and wiser man I have never known, other than my father. But he died well and with honour, and that is what he would have wished for. Now it falls to us to honour his sacrifice by emulating his example in thwarting our Enemy's plans."

"And that we shall," Halbarad assured him solemnly.

A swish of sapphire blue skirts announced the arrival of the princess. Long ebony hair flowed like a silken river to her waist, and her stunning light grey eyes shone like starlight in her face. Neville's jaw dropped like a Death Eater at the Battle of Hogwarts.

"Greetings, Halbarad, Ranger of the North, Istari from beyond the realm of Arda," she said in a voice sweeter than a box of Chocolate Frogs "I am Lothiriel, daughter of Dol Amroth. You must forgive my tardiness in making introductions; I have spent most of the day with my sister-in-love, who is in the seventh month of her confinement with her second child."

Elphir snorted inelegantly. "_Supposed_ to be in her confinement. My beloved still manages to find the energy to chase after Royal Guards armed with soap, towels, and strict orders to pass them to me at the earliest opportunity."

"Ah, but she moves much slower now, and thus most of the Guard have now the chance to flee before she can accost them," trilled his sister with a smile.

They chuckled.

"Well, it's very nice to meet you, your Highness," said Molly, brushing dirt and ash from her battle-ravaged tweed coat before executing a curtsey.

"You need not acknowledge me thus, daughter of Prewett!" cried the lady, clasping the witch's hand. "Not when you have journeyed so very far to bring us aid unasked for. Come, let us forgo the formalities: let us be friends, you and I! You must call me Lothiriel and I shall call you Molly, if I may. 'Tis such a delightful name! It reminds me of a warm embrace. You would not deny me the pleasure of uttering it, would you?"

Molly blushed to the roots of her flaming hair. "Of course not, dear! What a lovely thing to say!"

"Then come, Molly. I shall show you to your quarters. There you may bathe and break your fast before resting."

Tucking Molly's hand under her arm, she bid the menfolk a very good night and both women departed.

"My brothers shall accompany you both to your own accommodations for the night," said Elphir, beckoning to Erchirion and Amrothos. "Take what rest you may, my friends, for tomorrow we join the Swan Knights in our march East. Let us hope that – if indeed the Enemy awaits us – we have as much good fortune in crushing their advance as we had with the Corsairs."

A bit miffed that he was stuck with the strapping young princes instead of the lovely princess, but far too tired to object, Neville wished his host a good night. He and Halbarad followed Elphir's brothers to their allocated rooms where, too exhausted to accept their kind offers of food and a nice hot bath, he dropped himself gratefully on the nearest bed.

He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

**XXX**

After his bath the next morning, Neville shoved his stinking salty clothes into the furthest recesses of his knapsack (where Molly couldn't find them) and shoved on a pair of jeans, a T-shirt and a thick cardigan. He had seriously debated wearing the armour given to him by Théoden King before the march to Helm's Deep commenced, but quickly abandoned the idea after recalling how uncomfortable he had been the last time he rode in it. Besides, he could always put it on later, if the need arose (which it probably would).

Halbarad collected him and, after wolfing down a generous breakfast with Molly and their kind hosts, the group met in Imrahil's office one final time to plan their strategy.

"I've got a question, sir," Neville asked of Elphir as they studied a map of southern Gondor. "If we don't know where the army is, how do we know where to go?"

"A fair point. As it is, our foe's options are limited: if they seek an enemy fleet, then they will keep to the Anduin. But whether they sail on it or march by it, I cannot say for certain." He leaned forward in his chair, stroking his chin as he spoke. "It would be better for us if they come on ships, for then we may deal with them as swiftly we did with their allies in Harondor. Alas, but we cannot rely on that small hope! So we must lead our troops up the Anduin instead. I think it best to cross to the eastern side, that way we may avoid the enemy fleets at Linhir and Pelargir."

Erchirion frowned. "Can we be certain that those Corsairs are not the very ones Sauron sends to intercept Neville's ships? Or that some of them may be ordered to continue up the Anduin once both ports are secured?"

"Nay, we cannot. Yet I doubt that is the case here," said Halbarad. "I have reason to believe that the attack on the ports you speak of have been long in the planning, and their execution commenced ere or at the time Neville encountered Sauron in the Seeing Stone. The Dark Lord would not risk their success by diverting some or all of those ships farther up the Anduin. Nay, his intention would be to despatch the now fallen Corsair fleet up the Anduin and send another force down it, so that the starry ships of the Enterprise fleet would be trapped."

"I have to say that I think the likelihood of Sauron sending ships down the Anduin is very unlikely," remarked Molly, who was seated before Imrahil's desk. All eyes swung to her. "Well if he had ships to send _down_ the Anduin, then he would have had ships to transport troops _across_ it. From the eastern shores of Osgiliath to its western shores, that is. And that would mean Minas Tirith would have fallen by now. But we've got no reason to believe that's happened, have we? You've not had any word to say it has?"

She directed the question to Elphir, who confirmed her theory with a shake of his head.

Halbarad was visibly impressed. "Well reasoned, Molly."

"Don't look _so_ surprised," she said, a little archly. "I'm not _just_ a pretty face. Or a deadly wand."

"Forgive me, my Lady. I meant not to underestimate your powers of reasoning," Halbarad apologised, offering her a contrite bow.

"So we may reasonably assume that no enemy fleet sails south to intercept us," said Elphir. "'Tis a pity, but at least we have a better idea of how to proceed." He laid a long finger on the map before him and traced the contours of the Anduin with it.

"Given what Halbarad mentioned earlier of Aragorn's suspicions, we must either reckon with enemy battalions doubling back down South Ithilien to follow the Anduin on its westward course, or continuing still further south, crossing the Fords of Poros and following that river round to the latter part of the Anduin. 'Tis a large area to cover."

Neville eyed the map thoughtfully. "You know, I'm surprised Sauron doesn't save himself all this trouble and just send a few Nazgûl down the river to check if we have ships sailing up it to attack him or not."

"That is because - though irksome your fleet might be - it is not so major a distraction to him that he would be willing to spare his most deadly lieutenents. Nay, they are needed to breed fear elsewhere."

Not so major a distraction? Neville was strangely miffed. Shrugging the feeling off, he got back to the conversation at hand.

"So we need get from here -" he indicated Dol Amroth then moved his finger along until it hovered somewhere over the eastern banks of the Anduin "- to here, and still keep an eye out in case they're over here." His finger landed by the River Poros.

"Our best course of action would be to make for the Tarnost Pass -" Elphir indicated a long cluster of hills east of Dol Amroth "- then ride until we are but a few miles west of Linhir where we may cross the River Serni unmolested by the Corsairs. From thence we march south westerly through Lebennin and then we must make our choice: shall we cross the Anduin at Lorilad, which would take us to the eastern shore of the River Poros, or instead make for Balimur and cross there, where we might hope to engage Sauron's forces if they are marching down the eastern curve of the Anduin?"

Everyone was by this time clustered around the map of southern Gondor debating the two options, with the exception of Amrothos, who paced the office in frustration. Neville tapped the desk with his fingers, concentrating so intently on the various routes that finally, his sight began to blur. He rubbed impatiently at his eyes.

"Look, why don't we just head for Lorilad, okay? Molly and I can scout across the Anduin at that point and find out where exactly Sauron's troops are, and then we'll know whether to cross the river at that point or head east to Balimur and cross it there. Without further intelligence, it's the only reasonable option open to us at the moment."

"I concur," said Halbarad with a nod of his head. Fortunately the princes were of the same mind.

Elphir rose from his chair. "Then it is time for us to depart, my friends. Lady Molly, if you would prefer I will escort you around the castle first where you may begin enchanting the statues ..." he began, before she interrupted him with a chuckle.

"Oh, no, dear. I only need to raise my wand in order to call the whole lot. If it was just one or two we needed, that would be a different story. Why don't I wait until we're near the gates to the city and then I'll call them?"

Their host nodded. "An excellent idea. That way we will save much time and may proceed with our march earlier. Already our assembled host awaits, though I have bade them remain outside the City gates at present with our own steeds: the sound of over two hundred statues thundering over paved streets may alarm the horses too much, and we may waste precious time attempting to soothe them enough for the march thereafter."

Them _and_ their riders.

Amrothos – who would remain with a company of soldiers to protect the city - escorted them to the castle entrance where Lothiriel awaited them. Together the group waited for Elphir and Erchirion, who had departed to don their raiment for war. When the brothers returned, in mail shining in the early morning Sun, the party set off.

Lothiriel sought Neville out as they passed the magnificent tall tower of Tirith Aear and asked if she might accompany him.

"'Tis tradition that I wave the men from the gates when they ride to battle," she said solemnly.

Glad to accept, he was surprised to find that the lovely lady didn't send his heart racing in quite the same manner as Éowyn did. Not that he was complaining: the stunning princess was a joy to look at in her flowing white gown, and had a very open, pleasant manner. It was just nice not to have to worry about dribbling down his chin or tripping over his feet for a change.

"So," she said, keeping pace with him as they left the castle and made their way over the leafy courtyard to the Royal Road, "you are the famous boy-Wizard Molly has been sent to protect."

Hmm. Phrased like that, it sounded like he was a helpless waif.

"'S'pose you could say that, though I like to think she's more of a guardian."

"And perhaps she is, though it amounts to the same thing. She is not your mother?"

He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Er, no. My mum's … sick. Chronic condition."

"I am grieved to hear it. And your father?"

"He's not well either. Same illness. They're permanent residents in a wizarding hospital – that's sort of like your Healing House."

She squeezed his arm gently. "Forgive me for being so inquisitive, Neville – do you object if I call you Neville?" He replied with a shake of his head. "Good. I do not mean to pry, Neville, it is simply that I find you and Molly so very fascinating. Who could ever have dreamed there would be a world full of Wizards and Witches with families of their own! If you do not think it too impertinent of me, may I enquire with whom you live if not with your parents, for you seem yet quite young? Are you perhaps wed?"

"Are you perhaps offering?" he asked cheekily. She laughed.

"I shall take that as a 'no'."

He grinned at her, enjoying her company. "I've lived with Gran since I was a year old."

"Your parents have been ill for so long?" she said in dismay. Another squeeze of his arm. "That must be very difficult for you."

Not really. He hadn't known any different when he was growing up, and he told her so.

"I visit Mum and Dad as often as I can, though," Neville added, thinking how very much he missed them. He hadn't seen them since his visit the day after the Battle of Hogwarts, when he told them the war was over. Not that they had understood, let alone cared. His mum had just pressed another empty wrapper into his hands while his father remained sprawled on his bed, staring vacantly up at the ceiling.

"Is there no hope for a cure for whatever ails them?" she asked softly, watching his face carefully.

Neville smiled wistfully. "I wish there was, but no. All the best medi-witches and wizards have studied their condition, but it's a lost cause."

Lothiriel patted his arm gently. "I am deeply sorry to hear it. My own mother passed away not five summers ago, and I miss her greatly. Yet I have my father and three brothers to distract me from the loss. Do you have siblings?"

"No. Just me and Gran, although Uncle Algie and Aunt Enid visit a lot."

A mischievous smile lit her face. "How fortunate you are to be an only child!" she said (loudly). "No one to impress but your Daernaneth; no one to complain at you when your archery skills far exceed their own pitiful efforts, and – most importantly - no competition for your best gown."

"I _am_ the better archer!" exclaimed a voice to their left: it was Erchirion, and he looked very peeved.

"I _told_ you that gown was required to play a prank on Elphir, and nothing more!" declared a voice to their right: it was Amrothos, who had turned a very unflattering shade of red.

His sister sniffed imperiously. "That may very well be, but you did not return it as you ought to have. Which begs the question: where is my gown now? Lovingly folded in your very own drawer for later use, or adorning the curves of some pretty maid who caught your fancy?"

"Contrary to popular belief, I do not rove Anfalas gifting strange maidens with my own kin's wardrobe," grumbled Amrothos, glaring at her in affront. "Sisters! You know not how fortunate you are not to be blighted by them, Neville Longbottom."

Neville, Molly and Halbarad laughed.

"Do not pay him any heed, Neville," said Lothiriel, ignoring her offended kin. "Men are sensitive creatures in general, and my brothers in particular. Not a whiff of humour to be found in any of them."

So the familial banter continued as they passed elegant white house after elegant white house, through the winding streets of Dol Amroth. Despite the morning hour, there was no one present but the royal party, their guests, and soldiers of the Royal Guard who dotted their route to the city square at close intervals. Elphir's captains had been very efficient in warning the citizens of the spectacle to come; yet, though the streets were empty, every building they passed sported curious residents peeking through windows.

Eventually they reached the main square which was extremely large and open, with riotously colourful gardens surrounding it. Gleaming white, beautifully maintained buildings rose no more than two storeys high, apart from one in particular on the north side: it was at least three storeys tall and adorned with bejewelled nightingales and harps: perhaps the Hall of Music which Elphir mentioned during the war council? To the west of the square, a pillared balcony looked over Cobas Haven and boasted some spectacular views of the sea. To the south a pair of tall, intricately wrought silver gates opened out onto the hill, at the base of which – unseen at the moment - waited the muster of Dol Amroth.

As beautiful as it all was (and it was), the feature which most grabbed Neville's attention was the fifteen feet high statue situated directly in the centre of the paved square. A strikingly handsome man in fine mail sat upon a rearing horse; long hair streamed out behind him and there was a very Legolas point to his delicate ears. In one elegant hand there fluttered a banner on a long thin rod while his other clasped the reins, and his fine mouth was frozen in a soundless call to arms. To either side of him were a pair of majestic swans in flight.

It all looked very noble. And _very _fierce.

Neville grinned. "Who's that?" he asked Lothiriel. She followed his his finger and smiled.

"A depiction of Galador, first Prince of Dol Amroth. He founded our fair City over a thousand years since. 'Tis rumoured his mother was an elf maiden, which is why the sculptor has taken such liberty with his ears."

An elf maiden, eh? Lucky sod!

"Wouldn't be surprised if that rumour was true, you know: all your family's disgustingly good looking."

Lothiriel laughed. "Oh, I do s_o_ like you, Neville Longbottom. You call to mind my uncle, who also had a unique manner of expressing himself. I thank you for the compliment and for reminding me of my beloved kin, Eru bless him!"

Elphir raised an arm, bringing the company to a halt. "Behold our fair City square! 'Tis also our market place from morning 'til evening, though trade of late has been a little slow due to the fear of attack. I believe it should provide sufficient space to gather our marble friends. You need not fear of alarming the people; they have already been forewarned to expect the most extraordinary of sights – indeed, many of them await it with relish."

"'Tis all too thrilling for words!" exclaimed Lothiriel, her stunning eyes shining in anticipation. "That our monarchs and regents should march again!"

Smiling first at his sister indulgently, Elphir next offered Molly a gracious bow. "If you would care to proceed, my Lady?"

"Of course. Now, everybody move to the side; that's it, over there by that column. And cover your ears, dears – this might be a little noisy!"

Rolling up her sleeves, Molly stood at the head of the square, raised her arms and, with a wave of her wand, cried _"Piertotum locomotor!"_

The effect was instantaneous. A wall of the most terrific noise swept over Dol Amroth as, from every corner of the city, screeching and cracking heralded the movement of marble. Hands flew to ears as everyone tried to drown out the sound; Lothiriel gasped in awe – and a little fright – when the horse upon which Galador sat pulled its hooves from its moorings and sprang forward with the huge swans in tow. Colourful nightingales from the Hall of Music tore themselves from the ledges upon which they sat and flew across to perch themselves around Galador's horse.

Out of almost every building and down every street came the roar of hundreds of marble feet marching towards the city square. Tall men in mail thundered down the wide walkways of Dol Amorth, several stony swans swooped overhead, minstrels and songstresses poured from the Hall of Music, captains and soldiers and stewards and royalty: the noise was incredible.

"The birds are flying!" yelled Amrothos, gesticulating wildly at the sky.

"Well of course they are. That's what birds do, dear!" shouted Molly.

"But ought they not to fall from the sky and smash at our feet?"

"Do you _want_ them to smash at your feet?" called Neville, grinning.

Amrothos thought about it for barely a second before shaking his head. "Nay. I simply cannot comprehend how they achieve the power of flight when they are sculpted from marble."

"Magic, Amrothos. That's how they fly, and that's how the others march. It's great, isn't it?"

The youngest prince ignored him, too busy gaping at the tall statue of a woman who marched by carrying a goodly sized harp; she was followed by a thin man with a flute.

"Even the minstrels come!" he breathed.

"Course they do. They're statues, aren't they? The only ones that'll stay behind are those solely of inanimate objects, like those harps carved on the Hall of Music: they can't mobilise under their own power without feet or wings."

And so the extraordinary procession continued until, within twenty minutes, there were almost three hundred marble depictions lined over fifteen rows deep in the ultra posh market place. Stony necks cricked everywhere as noblemen (and several women) moved their heads to gaze at Molly expectantly.

"By the Valar!" breathed Amrothos, gaping incredulously at the sight before him. "Never in all my days have I seen _anything_ to rival this. _Never!_"

Beside him, Erchirion stared in speechless wonder at the array of cold white figures, some of which towered nearly twenty feet high. And he was not the only one: now that the initial commotion was over, windows flew open all around the square as the citizens of the city daringly ventured onto balconies. Cries and shouts of sheer amazement rang over the square:

"An army! A whole army of statues!"

"Our kings ride once more against the foes of Gondor!"

"Praise the Valar! May Eru protect our princes and the valiant Istari who come to our aid!"

"They might not think so highly of us when they see the clean-up job we're leaving behind," muttered Neville. "All that dust, all those smashed floors; the inside of your buildings and a lot of the streets are going to be in some state."

"A minor matter. Repairs will commence once we depart," said Erchirion simply. The prince had recovered his senses and was eyeing his marble brothers-in-arms with suppressed glee. "To ride into battle with my ancestors … never had I thought to see such a day!"

From somewhere outside the city gates the nervous whinnying of horses could just be heard over the jubilant calls of Dol Amrothians. Molly looked to Elphir then back at the statues.

"I order you to obey any command given to you by Elphir," she said, indicating her very surprised host. Loud screeches resounded as stone heads everywhere turned toward the prince. Molly beamed at him. "They're your relatives. Sort of. So I thought you might like to give them their marching orders."

Clearing his throat (and managing to look very regal in the face of so many cold blank stares), the regent prince faced his grim 'relations'.

"Kings, princes and stewards of old; men and women of valour and renown, and … er … birds and beasts also: your people have great need of you. Gondor is at war! We, your brethren, the Swan Knights of Dol Amroth and all her able-bodied men march this very day to do battle against her foes and all the foul enemies of the West. I command you now to march beside us; to aid us, your descendants, in any way that lies within your power, to smite all our enemies. Come forth, marble warriors! March for Amroth! Amroth for Gondor!"

The onlooking crowds began to cheer as the small party turned and, led by Elphir, made its way out through the city gates. Behind them, the thumping of marble boots heralded the march of the stony battalion. Down the winding road went the (sapient) party, walking tall and proud, with their newest recruits obliterating the paving at their rear.

Neville took a critical look ahead at the force Elphir and his captains had managed to assemble. True to his word, eighty knights in shining mail led the company; with their high helms and steel vambraces glinting in the morning sun, they outshone even the pristine statuary. All sat tall upon their barded horses carrying shields and spears at their sides, and some carried also blue banners with silver ships which fluttered in the salty breeze borne across from the sea. Men-at-arms there were, over four hundred strong; many wielding spears and shields, others bows. At the rear of the company were those men gathered from neighbouring villages and settlements; some clad with what mail was left in the city, either shining silver or leather, and others without. A few were seated upon sturdy coursers, but as there were so few horses left the rest had to make do with ponies or mules. All bore shields and swords of varying length.

When they reached the base of the hill, Barandomar of the Third Fleet came striding towards them. He executed a quick bow.

"My lords, we have gathered a total of fourteen hundred men, three hundred of whom will remain to protect the City as requested. Our scouts have reported nothing of note from the Anduin as yet, though they were able to get no further up it than a mile or two shy of Linhir, which is still under assault."

"Have we heard word yet from our scouts or the _dulinear_?" A quick shake of the captain's dark head was answer enough. "Very well, Barandomar. Prince Amrothos now has charge of the City. You are answerable to him until I or my father return."

The captain bowed in acknowledgement. Moments later Fæleu, Vorondwen and the princes' horses were brought before them. Neville trotted over to his chestnut mare and she whickered in something akin to pleasure at the sight of him. Momentarily stunned, he eyed her suspiciously.

"Are you sure this is my horse?" he asked the young stable boy; the youth smiled shyly and nodded as handed over the reins.

Shrugging, Neville mounted the mare and, after a quick 'Thanks for taking care of her for me!', nudged her to the fore of the company, where Lothiriel and Amrothos were saying their farewells.

For once, Molly and her Cleansweep were attracting surprisingly little attention as she hovered next to Halbarad: mainly due to the fact that over two thousand eyes were still warily tracking the marble army, which had marched off the hill and was now standing to attention at the far right of the main host (apart from the birds, which were gliding in circles over Elphir).

Sensing the apprehension of his men, the heir of the land turned his steed about to address them.

"Trusty knights and men of Dol Amroth, be not afraid! Do you not recognise our rulers of old when you see them?" He indicated the stone soldiers with a grand (poncy) flourish of his arm. "We have naught to fear from those who grounded our beloved realm! Our Istari allies have enchanted these marble depictions to aid us in our task! Strange their forms may seem to you, yet they march to protect the very legacy that you and I also seek to preserve. Our ranks are now swollen by their might and our strength multiplied many times, for no sword will break them, nor any arrow pierce them! Rejoice one and all at the fear our stony brothers-in-arms will instil in the Enemy! Take heart for soon they will decimate the ranks of those who wish to destroy us! Let us now defy all convention to fight side by side with our ancestors and together we will throw down the enemies of the West. Ride forth sons of Dol Amroth! Let the March of the Marble Militia commence!"

Men had visibly straightened on their horses while he spoke, and all now gave a collective cheer. Elphir and Erchirion bid their siblings a final farewell and led the army forward, horses surging behind them, statues charging beside them.

"Don't worry, I'll watch their backs for you," Neville promised Lothiriel and Amrothos, who stood tall and grave while their brothers rode away. "I'll make sure they're sent back safe and sound."

"You will not return?" called Lothiriel, appearing a little vexed. "We had hoped to see both you and Molly again!"

"I'm sorry, but we need to head to Minas Tirith after this."

Halbarad cantered over. "We shall indeed return," he said, ignoring Neville's perplexed expression. "Just as soon as we have located our foes and dealt with them. Fare thee well until then, your Highness. Come Neville! We have not the time for lengthy dawdling!"

That said, the ranger turned Vorondwen about and joined the host, leaving a very confused young wizard to follow in his wake.

**XXX**

The host of Dol Amroth rode for many days towards a fate unknown. Upon reaching the Tarnost Pass, it skirted the western foothills and crossed the grassy mainland, heading in the direction of Linhir. Thankfully, the host had quickly become used to their new 'militia', and the thumping of marble boots was no longer enough to spook their brave mounts either. Unfortunately, aforementioned boots were not made for such lengthy travels and both Neville and Molly had to keep firing _Reparo_s as they began to stumble and shatter. In the end, it was decided to shrink the whole lot (except the birds) and stick them in Neville's knapsack until they were required, and both wizard and witch set about this task during the first night's rest. Thereafter the ride south east was significantly easier (and significantly quieter) for everyone.

Except for one minor matter.

Ever since leaving Dol Amroth, Neville had been attempting to question Halbarad about his parting remark to Lothiriel, with limited success.

"I don't understand _why_ we have to go back to Dol Amroth," argued Neville for the umpteenth time after the host set up camp that first night. "We all know there's going to be a battle in Minas Tirith!"

"Aragorn will send for us when he has need of us, and not before, young Wizard," replied the ranger before disappearing yet again and leaving Neville to the shrinking of the statuary.

Dissatisfied with the answer, he tried again later.

"How in the name of Merlin will he be able to send for us in time for the assault on Boromir's city? It could happen any day now and he doesn't have a post owl. Or a Patronus."

"By the Valar, Neville Longbottom! _Must_ you badger me with this when I am answering the call of nature?"

"Well, yeah, actually. It seems to be the only time I can be sure you won't try to make a run for it."

Swearing colourfully (though prettily) in Elvish, Halbarad hastily stuffed himself back into his breeches and stormed off to find a little more privacy elsewhere.

"Don't forget to wash your hands!" yelled Neville peevishly, absently wondering if Middle Earthlings had ever heard of the phenomena that was soap and water.

He was unable to address the issue again for almost a day because the host was riding so hard towards the River Serni. They stopped at its banks and crossed several miles west of the port of Linhir after Molly returned from her scouting trip, stating that it would be dangerous to get any closer or the Corsair scouts might spot them. As darkness fell, the host made camp by a small woods and Neville was one of those assigned the first watch.

To his surprise Halbarad sought him out.

"Come, young Wizard; you and I shall keep watch together."

"What, you mean you won't run off?"

"Where should I go?"

"Anywhere I'm not?"

Chuckling, Halbarad thumped him playfully on the shoulder (which hurt). "If I so desired to run from you I would not have sought you out," he drawled, leading the teenager to the edge of the camp. They took their seats on a fallen log next to a clump of yellow-tipped gorse. The smell of coconut emanating from it soon mingled with the scent of tobacco, reminding Neville strongly of Aragorn. He wondered if his absent friends had managed to hail the army of ghosts Isildur's heir had spoken of, and if they were even now on their way south to spook the lives out of the enemy.

For a while there was silence between them as each peered into the darkening night, watching for any suspicious movements and keeping their ears sharpened for the slightest noise that might betray unwelcome company. But ten minutes of this turned into twenty, which soon dragged into half an hour. With neither sight nor sound of unfriendly agents nearby, nor any seeming danger that there would be any, Neville began to get bored. He glanced at Halbarad from the corner of his eye, but the older man was still staring keenly ahead and showed not the slightest inclination to communicate, let alone discuss the one subject he had been evading for two days.

Of course, Neville _could_ initiate that particular conversation himself, but why bother? They had another hour and a half of their watch left, and he suspected his companion would bring up the topic before then. In the meantime, he would just have to kill time.

"One million Crumple-horned Snorcacks sitting on a wall," he hummed absently. "One million Crumple-horned Snorcacks sitting on a wall; and if one Crumple-horned Snorcack should accidentally fall, there'd be nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine-thousand, nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine Crumple-horned Snorcacks slowly dying of laughter."

Which would explain why nobody had ever seen any.

He snorted, thinking of poor Luna. He missed his eccentric friend.

"Forgive me, Neville," said Halbarad suddenly, making the teenager jump. "I did not mean to give you the impression that I was trying to avoid you these past days. It is simply unwise to waste energy with talking that ought to be conserved for riding, especially when we are riding so hard toward a fate unknown."

Okay, that made sense. Riding was much harder than it looked, something he could now personally attest to. Simply staying on the horse was effort enough, let alone trying to hang on while it flew over the grassy or rocky country. Thankfully, Fæleu was still behaving herself and hadn't attempted to chuck him off once. Neville was so grateful he'd even slipped her a carrot when they'd stopped.

"Fair enough. But you've still not explained why we're going back to Dol Amroth."

"You do not like it there?"

"What's that got to do with anything? Are you trying to avoid the issue?"

"There is no 'issue' to avoid, Neville Longbottom. It is simply more prudent to return to Dol Amroth when we do not yet know what my kinsman might plan to aid Minas Tirith in her hour of need. As it is, Aragorn and the Army of the Dead have yet to achieve victory at Lebennin. Yet what if they do not? Eru forbid, but if that assault fails, and we march forth to Minas Tirith none the wiser, we might very well be walking straight into a trap: the host of Mordor ahead of us, and the Corsairs of Umbar at our rear. With such numbers as Sauron has at his disposal, even the aid of two otherworldly Istari may not be enough to save us."

It made a horrible sort of sense, phrased like that.

"Nay, my friend: we must be patient, you and I. Let us first await tidings from Aragorn, then we may gather what force remains from our own impending battle and march for Minas Tirith."

Neville frowned anew.

"I don't understand. Why march all the way back if we're only going to have to turn around again? It would make much more sense to set up camp somewhere ..."

He got no further.

"What if Dol Amroth comes under attack whilst we are away? It has but three hundred men to fend off an assault; we must return to protect it should the need arise."

What? That didn't make any sense ...

"Under attack from whom? The men already stationed there are more for the civilians' peace of mind, surely? I mean, there can't be any more Corsairs left to pose a threat or the force we met in Harondor would've been much bigger; Aragorn and his army of ghosts will take care of any threat heading down from the north; and we've not run across any more of Sauron's forces yet - and when we do they'll be sorrier than a Nazgûl in a nightdress. So who exactly is left to attack Dol Amroth?"

"You are assuming that we shall be victorious in battle."

"You're assuming we won't."

"I am simply being prudent," the ranger asserted. "If we lose the coming battle, Sauron's army will continue their march west to crush the City of the Swan Knights as retribution for opposing them. Any survivors among us who are able must ride to warn Dol Amroth with all haste and see her ready for a possible attack."

"I understand that, Halbarad," the teenager replied, feeling slightly frustrated. "What I'm saying is that if we _do_ win, there'll be no need to warn them, no need to retrace our steps. It'll be a pointless exercise. We can save so much time by setting up camp after the battle's over and waiting for word from Aragorn."

"Yet he will have no idea where to send such word when it does not find us in the City as expected. Nay; win or lose, we must return to Dol Amroth."

The conversation was making less and less sense, tactically speaking, and Neville was slowly beginning to wonder why Halbarad didn't see that.

Or maybe Halbarad _did_. Perhaps returning to Dol Amroth wasn't so much a question of defending that city against potential assault as it was a pretence to prevent Neville himself from reaching the other possible target: Minas Tirith?

It was a ridiculous assumption, but he couldn't shake the feeling it was the right one. Yet why would Halbarad not want him to go to Boromir's city when his magic may very well be needed there – may very well prove vital in helping the Gondorians with the defence of their city? Was he that worried about the teenager's safety?

Explanations would not be forthcoming any time soon: at that moment a ruckus from beyond the western edges of the camp drew Neville and Halbarad's attention. Rising, they heard the hammering approach of hooves and the faint sound of a man yelling for the Prince.

"Come, Neville! It may be one of the scouts with news of the Enemy."

Stopping only long enough to assign two soldiers to replace them as lookouts, both made their way swiftly towards the centre of the camp, where Elphir and Erchirion had set up their tent. Both princes had already been roused by the clamour, and were even now to be found standing expectantly outside the small structure, surrounded by vassals and knights. All eyes tracked the rider who was now mere yards away. Neville and Halbarad pushed their way through the crowd just in time to see the new arrival dismount and race towards his regent prince.

"My lords! My lords! News from Dol Amroth. A _dulinear_ returned hours after you left bringing tidings from one of our eastern outposts. A contingent of Haradrim and Easterlings passed the Crossings of Poros two nights since. Its size is estimated between three and four thousand strong. It makes for the Anduin, but where from thence, none can say."

Oh yes they could. The gits were heading west!

Molly joined them just as the rider delivered this news. "Two whole nights ago?" she exclaimed. "How did they … oh. Nazgûl. Their master must've sent one to intercept them. But that means they should've reached the river by now. At least that'll make our job easier – we know which side of the River Poros they're on. It's a smaller force than we were expecting, though."

"I'm not complaining," muttered Neville. It was significantly less than anyone had feared. Apart from him, of course: he'd suspected Sauron might be too cocky for his own good.

"It would seem that Neville's guess was nearer the mark than our own," stated Halbarad, echoing his thoughts.

"Perhaps," agreed Elphir, whose grey eyes briefly swept the camp, "yet there is little cause for celebration. We are still more than thrice outnumbered; the Enemy's latest force is almost as large as the Corsair fleet, but they will not be so easily cowed."

Something that wouldn't have bothered Neville as much if the enemy force had been in boats. Sauron was a right inconsiderate git. Couldn't he have made their job just a little easier?

"Furthermore, if they crossed the Fords of Poros two nights since, they will be significantly further down the Anduin than we had suspected."

"What are they like, tactically speaking?" asked Neville, keen to get a better idea of who they would soon be facing: up until this point he'd simply assumed they would either be orcs, or landlubbing Corsair-types (minus the boats).

Erchirion answered. "The Haradrim are primarily cavalry with scimitars, though they have skilled archers who can shoot with ease from horseback, like the Rohirrim. The Easterlings bear similar weapons but have more durable mail – superior even to our own. Their infantry carries also halberds: wooden spear-like poles with downward-curving serrated axe blades and multiple spikes. We need not worry about the longer halberds if they ride on horseback, yet some may bear the shorter ones with which to pierce our armour."

Well, they sounded charming. Still, at least they hadn't brought the Nazgûl with them. Either way, fighting these Haradrim and Easterlings was a tricky prospect, because the only major conflicts he'd participated in so far had been either confined to the Deeping Valley or confined to the Great Sea. This time there would be infinitely more manoeuvrability for both sides, depending on where the opposing armies ended up clashing.

And that could prove problematic.

Elphir, whose grey orbs were gazing thoughtfully into the distance, addressed them almost absently. "Our path forward is at least decided: we must cross the Anduin at Balimur. Yet now we learn that the Enemy is nearer than we had thought our tactics must be amended to counter this, if we are to be assured victory in battle."

His eyes cleared as they caught the gaze of his captain-cum-Field-Marshal. "Aglador, give word that no fires are to be lit and the watch on the camp doubled overnight. I want everyone assembled and ready to depart ere dawn."

Aglador scuttled off immediately, taking the exhausted scout with him.

"As for those who remain," continued Elphir, his eyes flitting first to his brothers and the visiting Istari, then from Halbarad to a few of the higher-ranking knights, "I must bid you all wait a while longer for your own rest. We have plans to make and details to refine if we are to unleash the wrath of both Dol Amroth and her marble kinsmen on the Enemy. Come!"

Hoping that Molly still had plenty of Pepper-up potion in her knapsack, Neville followed obediently behind the prince as he led them to his tent.

It was going to be a _very_ long night indeed.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Author's Note_: I know, I know: it's a gap filler.. Believe it or not, I've had about 80% of this chapter written for over two months, but I'm having difficulty at one particular point, and despite having distracted myself from this fic for a while by writing a few others (which, oddly enough, usually helps with the inspiration for whichever NQAM chapter I'm currently having issues with), no resolution has presented itself as of yet. So I've come to the conclusion that that means I have to post this as is (and get it out of the way) so I can resolve the issue I'm stuck on in a new chapter. Either that, or I scrap everything I've written here and start from scratch.

As tempting as that idea was (because this chapter is a bit waffly in places), I didn't want to waste all the effort I've made, because I'd still have to come up with something similar for the first half of the rewrite – and it would mean my readers would have to wait even longer for a new post.

So, rather than that, I'll post as is and hope it keeps you going until I can get this ruddy plot issue resolved ...

Thanks for reading,

Kara's Aunty ;)


	41. Fight! Fight! Fight!

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. and Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

**Credit: **en-wikia, hp & lotr wikias

**Chapter 41**

* * *

_The Plains of South Gondor_

_Third Age 11th-12th_ _March 3019_

Almost two days after getting word of the enemy, the host of Dol Amroth had successfully crossed the River Anduin at the fishing village of Balimur and ridden hard across the soil-and-sandy plains of South Gondor. Neville and Molly were kept busy, scouting far ahead on broomsticks for any sign of the opposing force, and in the late evening of the second day's ride they returned with word that their quarry had been spotted less than four miles away, half a mile south of the river's edge.

Night was already falling when the news was imparted, and many eyes looked up doubtfully. Yet though the sky way off east was pregnant with an unnatural darkness that crept slowly north, this far west it was still the normal velvety black of nightfall, speckled with twinkling stars. A clear night for rest or battle, as it happened. Therefore, despite the lateness of the hour, the host of Dol Amroth was ordered to halt and preparations began for the coming conflict. Neville and Molly Disapparated once more, this time with Halbarad and Erchirion in tow, to gather more intelligence on their Southron and Easterling enemies.

An hour later the four figures retreated slowly on their bellies from the rise of a small hill, cautiously edging backwards until – when their prey was finally lost from sight beyond the summit – they rose and descended the rest of the way before Disapparating.

Elphir and Aglador dismounted as the little party approached; they were quickly followed by several curious captains, marshals and knights in shining armour.

"And?" The prince's question was heavily expectant.

"Unbelievably, they've stopped. All three thousand plus of them. And their ruddy enormous elephants."

"Elephants?"

"Mûmakil," clarified Halbarad. "At least ten."

"And they're huge," added Neville. "So are their tusks."

Many of the Dol Amrothians shivered, having witnessed firsthand the macabre pancake a rampaging mûmak could whip up with an enemy horse and rider.

Neville continued his report. "The Enemy's actually setting up camp for the night, which is convenient for us I suppose. Arrogant gits have even lit fires."

Erchirion smiled grimly. "They see no reason to expect assault by land."

Weren't _they_ in for a big surprise, then?

"Anyway," continued Neville, "they've sent scouts further downriver, though they're sticking close to the bank, keeping an eye out for my imaginary fleet. So they should miss you altogether when you move out. As for the rest, they're settling down for the night. Knackered, by the looks of things. And no wonder if they've ridden so far in only a few days."

"Knackered?" Elphir looked slightly puzzled.

"Fatigued, presumably," muttered Halbarad dryly, reminding Neville so strongly of Aragorn in that moment that he had to grin. "I still cannot say that the idea of attacking whilst they rest pleases me, son of Longbottom. Were it a company of Orcs, that would be different. But Men – even though they are enemies? It smacks of dishonour."

A small crowd of dark heads bobbed in agreement, causing Neville to roll his eyes in exasperation.

"Right, okay. Well, why don't we just set up camp here and wait patiently for enemy scouts to alert their army to our presence – that'll be the army that outnumbers us over three to one, by the way – so they can then sneak up and attack us in _our_ sleep. Or, if we're lucky enough to escape the scouts' attention, we can just wait for the Haradrim and Easterlings to have a good night's rest of their own. That way they and their ruddy elephants'll be as fresh as _three and a half thousand_ daisies when they wipe the floor with us tomorrow. Which option suits you best?"

Halbarad harrumphed irately.

The ranger obviously saw his point, but Neville knew how obsessive he and all his Middle-earthling brothers-in-arms were about honour (not that _he_ wasn't, he was simply more flexible about it than they were). Sighing, he did his best to appease them: "You can stop grumbling. _We'll give them a chance to deserve it first_, as my gran says. Satisfied?"

Several sets of pearly whites flashed in the night.

"Great," said the teenager, relieved.

The next few minutes were spent describing all they had seen from the hilltop; with the use of a stick, Halbarad illustrated the Enemy's position by sketching a quick diagram in the soil. With this new information, their plan of attack was finalised. Satisfied, Molly produced half the marble army from a box in her knapsack and she and Neville began lifting the miniaturising spell from them. After another '_Piertotem locomotor_', and a command from the witch to obey Elphir, they soon stood tall and proud at their prince's side.

"I charmed them all collectively after I boxed them, so you won't have to worry about their legs shattering any more," Molly informed Elphir. "And don't forget: once they start running – I mean _really_ running – they won't stop unless you order them to, or unless they meet an enemy of Gondor, so make sure you're all up for the chase!"

With that, the homely matron offered the party one last 'Good luck, boys!', then trotted off to Stun and Disapparate with Fæleu, leaving Neville to follow in her wake. The teenager, having fished his Rohan armour out of his bag, stripped off his jumper and gratefully accepted Aglador's help to don the mail.

"Does everyone have their hats ready?" he asked, as the quasi-Field Marshal secured first Neville's chest armour, then rust-coloured steel shoulder guards. Immediately he began to sweat.

"Yes, though I must say they are rather ... alarming."

This from Elphir, who eyed the Headless Hat tucked into the belt of his scabbard, ready to whip over his helm at short notice. Molly had fished a dozen of them from her voluminous knapsack and she and Neville spent ten minutes casting Geminio spells to successfully replicate almost five hundred of them. The plan was to ensure enough for the whole army, yet the invisibility spell imbued into the hats grew significantly weaker after four hundred and eighty, rendering those ones worthless. As it was, they feared the successfully replicated versions might only conceal their wearers for a few hours, as opposed to the full twelve hours of an original (if worn constantly).

"They're supposed to be alarming," the teenager muttered distractedly, "But as our lot know what they really are, the only people they'll really frighten will be that sorry lot back there." He jerked a finger behind him in the direction of the distant hills.

"I'll Apparate to Molly once I've got this lot on, and then we'll start doing what we have to do. Don't forget: give it half an hour before you begin the march, and don't put the hats on for another thirty minutes after that, just so the spell on them covers you for the longest possible time."

"You are certain this will work?" asked Erchirion, watching as Neville finished securing his plate leggings.

The youth grinned devilishly. "Put yourself in the Enemy's place," he said, offering up his hands so Aglador could slip on the rust-coloured vambraces, "would you want to fight us, knowing what's about to happen?"

Dark heads everywhere shook violently.

Slinging the quilted green Rohan cloak over his shoulders, Neville secured it, wishing desperately that he didn't feel so ruddy warm. He could feel moisture trickling down his back already and he hadn't even moved yet. It didn't help that there wasn't a stiff wind to be found anywhere in this balmy southern region of Gondor. Unfortunately, the armour was a necessary part of their plan, so he couldn't forgo it – but if this heat got any worse, he'd faint before he ever reached the ruddy hill again.

Realising that he'd be no good in a fight if that occurred, he tapped the armour with his wand: it glowed briefly, and then – joy of joys – a cool breeze began to circulate beneath it. He shivered at the delicious sensation. Aglador handed him a burgundy helm, which he slipped over his head, then finally the yew shield which completed his smart new attire.

"Right, then. I'll see you later. Good luck!"

With a final wave, Neville twisted on the spot and was soon at the base of the hill he had left less than an hour ago. Already Molly had the rest of the marble army returned to their normal size and lined up in rows three deep at the base of the hill, with the enormous statue of Prince Galador standing proudly at the fore. She paused to wave at Neville before returning her attention to their stony allies.

Barely had the teenager returned her greeting when Fæleu trotted over to nudge him on the shoulder.

"I swear someone's given this old nag a personality transplant," he muttered, scratching her nose. "Hope you're up for a fight, girl, 'cos it's going to get a little hairy out there."

Speaking of hairy …

"Here," said Molly, bustling over. She produced a flask which, when uncorked, emitted little curls of steam from the mouthpiece.

"What's that?" he asked, wondering what she was up to.

"Polyjuice Potion."

"Polyjuice Potion? What for?"

She sighed, her kindly face a picture of exasperation. "To turn you into a Rohirrim, of course!"

Neville was perplexed. "I thought we were just going to use Glamour charms. I've already got the Rohirrim armour on ..."

"Yes, dear, but you're just not tall or forbidding enough to pass as a Rohan prince of old. And neither will I be, no matter how many Glamour charms I use. I'll use an Illusion charm when we get started to make them think your twice as big, but it won't last for long - they never do. Takes too much concentration and we simply won't have the time. Trust me, this'll be much easier."

"But I'll have to keep drinking it every hour ..."

"No you won't!" she interjected. "Just once more after this time, that's all. Elphir and the boys will be here soon after that anyway, and then we'll be in the middle of a full-scale battle. No one will care what you look like then, believe me."

"Where did you get a Rohirric hair from anyway, all the way out here?"

She huffed impatiently. "Honestly, Neville, dear; sometimes you're worse than Ron! What does it matter where I got it? Oh, all right! If you must know, Éomer and some of his nice friends provided them before we left Helm's Deep. Sort of provided them. To be quite honest, it didn't look like any of them had seen a comb in weeks, in my opinion, and so it might have continued if I hadn't offered my services."

"Offered your services?" he hissed incredulously. "Molly, you didn't hunt down the _future King of Rohan_ and demand to comb his hair did you?"

The redhead blushed.

"You did! What, did you corner him and his mates and threaten to hex them if they didn't stand still? But how could you have known we'd need them later?"

He could almost feel the heat burning from her cheeks.

"Galadriel's mirror," she admitted, her voice strangely high-pitched. "You remember I looked into it when we were still in Lothlórien? Anyway, I saw you drinking this and turning into a Rohirrim soldier, so I knew you'd need some. I couldn't remember _which_ soldier you turned into – it might have been Éomer - but I thought I might as well get a few more hairs just in case. Well, you can never be too careful, can you? The Rohirrim were very obliging, bless them."

Well they would be, wouldn't they, under the threat of Molly's magic?

Amused, he was about to ask her what else she had seen in the Mirror, but the question was never posed as she shoved the flask into his hand. He eyed it cautiously, having heard of how disgusting the liquid could be. Shrugging resignedly, the teenager downed several mouthfuls. To his surprise, Neville discovered it tasted very pleasant, actually. Sort of sweet and tangy, with a definite smell of fresh hay about it.

Very Rohirric!

Even before he finished the last drop he could feel his skin bubbling and his limbs stretching. It was both peculiar and rather painful, but he bit his tongue and endured it. Beside him, Molly finished the contents of the flask and he watched as her body stretched and shot over a foot higher. Within seconds, they stood together, looking very much like a pair of strapping identical heirs of Rohan.

Which was exactly the plan ...

Fortunately, being one of the set of 'twins' didn't affect Molly as much as _seeing_ a set standing directly before her, as it had back at Helms Deep.

"Heavens!" she exclaimed in Éomer's deep baritone as she wobbled slightly on her feet. Neville reached out a large hand to steady her. "So this is what it feels like to be so far away from the ground. Now I know how Merry and Pippin must have felt after drinking that Ent-draught. Still, at least _they're_ still the same gender."

She took a few cautious steps to find her balance and Neville followed suit, familiarising himself to his strange new body mass. He flexed muscled arms whilst taking long strides up and down, and felt very much more manly than he ever had before.

An uncontrollable curiosity suddenly seized him, then – an almost instinctual masculine urge to check out the competition. Turning oh-so-casually, so that his cloaked back was to Guardian, Neville prepared to separate the horses from the donkeys …

Mere seconds later he straightened his breeches in disgust.

Typical. The only donkey around here was him; Éomer Jr was just as strapping as daddy.

Still, he thought, smoothing out his clothing and facing his not-so-matronly companion once more (she was refilling the Polyjuice flask), good things came in small packages, or so Aunt Enid said. True, she had been referring to Chocolate Frogs at the time, but so what? Anyway, if he looked half as good as Molly (which he would, given they were now both the spitting image of Théoden's nephew), then he'd never looked so bloody good in all his life! If only Éowyn could see him ...

He blanched, crushing the thought instantly upon realising that she was hardly likely to fancy her own brother.

"All right, Molly. I'm ready when you are."

She nodded once, then both wizard and witch grabbed their knapsacks and climbed the hill. Crouching down as they reached the summit, they each pulled out a pair of Omnioculars and peered through them at the vast plain below.

The enemy force was spread out over a good square mile across the grassy plain, and though most had taken to bedrolls by the campfires, several were still milling about, chatting with friends and swapping recipes (or whatever soldiers swapped). A handful of tents dotted the field, one or two of which had tall masts bearing red flags with black snakes that flapped idly in the wind.

"For the chieftains or whatever," theorised Neville softly, indicating one with his finger.

"Or marshal or captain," said Molly, aiming her Omnioculars at a large tent were several scarlet-and-black liveried men stood. "They seem to be very fond of marshals and captains here. No colonels, lieutenants or brigadiers – at least, not that I've met. Then again, what do I know about army ranking systems, Muggle or otherwise? Arthur would, though."

Neville tore his eyes from the field and shifted to look at her. She bore a wistful expression as she lovingly uttered her husband's name, though it looked and sounded very, _very_ wrong on Éomer's face, and with Éomer's manly voice. Torn between repugnance and amusement, he squeezed her hand awkwardly before returning his attention to the plain below.

To the left of the campsite was the Anduin, flowing westward towards the Great Sea. The light of Moon and stars reflected off it, making it sparkle like a black diamond ribbon. Men led horses and mûmakil, in groups, to and from the river for watering. The low rumble of heavily accented voices floated gently from the camp toward them, though neither could decipher any particular language or words due to the fact that the men were over a hundred yards away.

"Why don't they keep lookout from the hills, do you think?" queried Molly. "They'd be able to see much further down the river that way instead of having to send out scouts."

"Not in the dark they won't. At least, not without a telescope of some sort, and even then it'll be tricky, moonlight or not. It's much more expedient to send scouts."

Adjusting the setting on his Omnioculars, Neville shifted so that he was looking beyond the camp proper. Somewhere out there, in the dark beyond, lay the South Road, as Erchirion had explained during their last visit to the hill. It curved south-east before joining with the Harad Road at the Crossings of Poros and turning north towards Minas Tirith.

Neville smiled, recalling a discussion with Halbarad and Molly before the trio had ever come to Dol Amroth. The Crossings of Poros were precisely what had given him the idea for this first line of attack ...

"Molly," he said, focusing on a cluster of dark shapes roughly half a mile to the east of the camp. They were framed by a few spindly trees. A few more trees trailed off further east behind them, though not enough to be classified as a woods, and too far from the camp to be of any use to them. "There are the bushes we spotted earlier. We need to get over there in the next few minutes and get started if we hope to make any headway before Elphir and his men arrive."

"I see them, dear," acknowledged Molly.

Together they slipped back down the hill. With a final nod at his now-strapping Guardian, Neville left her to give Galador and his friends their final orders, while he Disapparated under cover of Harry's Invisibility Cloak. The _crack_ as he Apparated behind the bushes sounded like an explosion to his ears. Grimacing, he pulled out his wand and – still under cover of the Cloak - slipped out from behind the bushes, daring a short journey toward the nearest cluster of men to see if any were looking behind them suspiciously. Astonishingly, nobody seemed disturbed in the slightest: most were curled up asleep in their scarlet cloaks, or sat with their dark heads bent, conversing quietly. Bemused but thankful, the teenager returned to his hiding spot, and jumped in fright when he found Molly and Fæleu awaiting him.

"Crikey! I never heard you coming."

"That's because I put Silencing charms all around the bushes earlier."

"You've been here already?" he asked incredulously.

"Of course I have," she sniffed, lifting the Stunner from his mare. "When I returned to the hill with Fæleu the last time. Before you came back with your armour on, remember? Well, I know what a racket you make when you Apparate, so I had to make sure that lot didn't hear you or the game would've been up before it even started!"

Grinning, he grabbed her shoulders and planted a wet kiss on her cheek. "You're a genius, Molly!"

When he pulled back, Éomer's smiling hairy face was beetroot and – realising what he'd done – it was all Neville could do not to spew. He didn't want his Guardian to think she repulsed him, after all. Still ...

Desperate to forget the fact he'd sort-of-almost snogged the future King of Rohan (a _bloke_), Neville set about unloading the necessary supplies from his knapsack while Molly warded the area around the bushes with Muggle Repelling charms, so they would avoid detection while they worked. Once she had finished she joined him in divesting her own bag of the necessary supplies.

"Should we use some of your plants?" she asked, as she began pulling boxes from her knapsack.

"No," replied Neville distractedly. "Too dangerous. It wasn't a problem back in Helm's Deep because our allies were on the other side of the wall, but here -" he indicated the open field ahead with a wave of his arm "- it'll be too dangerous for them. Besides, I wouldn't want them to start attacking the horses. They're not the enemy."

"You're a sweet boy, Neville, do you know that?" she trilled approvingly.

"Not that sweet. The poor sods are still in for a serious fright night – they and their scary elephantine friends, both," he remarked, indicating some of the colourful boxes he'd set on the grass. "Sixteen Minute Mice, Sixteen Minute Snakes: ten to a box, four boxes of mice, three of snakes. Obviously, they'll only last sixteen minutes before disappearing, but it should be enough. If we Geminio them too, that'll give us plenty with which to scare a fair amount of animals enough to make them unmanageable – maybe even bolt. And no horses and elephants means no riders or four-legged pancake machines. Advantage: us."

"Where did you get them?" asked Molly in surprise. She picked up one of the bright red-and-green boxes and examined it. "I don't remember seeing these in the boys' shop."

"That's because they're Zonko's products. I bought them to use against the Carrows but never got the chance before the war ended. Same with the snakes. They're not poisonous – they don't even bite – but they do scare the living daylights out of most teachers. Except possibly Professor McGonagall. She'd probably scare the mice. Fortunately she's not here, so our creepy crawly friends will be free to scare anything on four legs that suits them. Sorry, Fæleu."

He offered his mare a sheepish grin at the insult he was about to unleash on her race, though she only stared back at him balefully.

Molly emptied some boxes of her own. "Decoy Detonators, Wildfire Whizbangs, Tyrannosaurus Toads ..." She paused to pull one out of its package when Neville's eyebrows rose incredulously and handed it to him: it was a big, fat, bogey-green toad with red lips and a big black bow on its head. "It hops around shouting things like '_Hem hem!_', '_Detention!_' and 'O_h Argus, I do love you_!'."

She grinned at him knowingly.

"What else do we have? Oh, yes. A Portable Swamp or two, though I think we'll give those a miss in case one of our lot gets sucked in by mistake. Super Strength Lust Dust – that can lead to excruciatingly embarrassing mornings after if not diluted. Honestly, where those boys got their ideas from! Mind you, it might come in handy if we just sprinkle it above some of those captains of theirs."

They both froze when a noise ahead alerted them to company. Rising slowly, Neville moved cautiously around a bush and nearly yelped when he spotted two grim-faced men patrolling the area. One had black braids and a scarlet tunic; he wielded a spiked shield in his left hand and a wickedly curved blade in the other. His companion was bedecked in brass-coloured armour bearing the symbol of a sun on the breast-plate. Underneath was a burgundy tunic, and long breeches covered in cuisses and poleyns adorned his legs. An intimidating dragon-skull-shaped helmet covered his head and face. Both men swept the area with cold dark eyes which, when they clashed with each others, narrowed in dislike.

And they were less than ten feet away.

"It's all right," whispered Molly from behind him. "They won't get any closer than that before feeling the urge to wander off.

Sure enough, within seconds the two men stalked off toward the river leaving witch and wizard alone.

Discomfited by the near encounter, Neville took a few deep breaths and thanked Merlin for Molly. If he'd been alone, he'd never have thought to use charms around the bushes and he might very well have been caught …

Shaking the feeling off, he returned to his Guardian, who was once again fishing boxes from her knapsack.

"Oh, you'll like these! Potter Spotters. The boys finished them just before … well, you know. They got the idea from all those Undesirable Number One posters offering rewards for Harry's capture. Anyway, they're basically mini Dark Marks that fly about screaming '_Where's Harry Potter?_' or "_Bring me Potter or die!_' and such. Lee leant his voice to them - he's a talented mimic, you know. He even managed a passable Professor Umbridge for the Tyrannosaurus Toads."

Shaking his head in amusement, he helped her unpack all their goodies and arrange them so that they could be set loose with the flick of a wand. Several Geminios later, and there were literally hundreds of mice, snakes, toads and other tiny terrors ready to spook every man and beast in sight. The realisation suddenly made Neville frown.

"What about Fæleu? We can't have her losing it along with all the others."

"Don't worry dear. I'll charm her before you're seated. We'll need a few extra spells for effect anyway, so I might as well take care of both together. Secure that box of snakes to the front of my Cleansweep, while I see to her."

Dutifully obeying, he left his mare in her safe hands and readied the Sixteen Minute Snakes. With a wave of his wand, the box stuck itself to Molly's broomstick. He tapped it again for good measure so they wouldn't spill out involuntarily. Satisfied, he straightened his cloak and swept grandly across to his horse, like a poncy prince should. Molly handed him a flask before he got seated.

"Here, take another sip of Polyjuice Potion. All this arranging took longer than I'd hoped, and our disguises will wear off soon if we're not careful."

She was right. The half hour they'd asked Elphir to wait was almost up. If they didn't get a move on, the Easterlings and Haradrim would still be happy horse-ridden campers when they got here, and he couldn't let that happen.

Grabbing the flask, he downed another few mouthfuls, then handed it to her so she could do likewise. After that, it was simply a matter of Molly mounting her Cleansweep and the show could begin.

And so it did …

**XXX**

Makilor of southern Harad was neither a harsh nor a superstitious man. He did not believe in cruelty unless it was earned, nor did he pay any heed to the whisperings of fools such as Herakil, a lieutenant he had killed for spreading rumours about the Curse of Poros which almost led to a revolt among not only his own forces, but also those of Urfand, the Easterling chieftain. Fortunately, he had successfully crushed the impending revolt by declaring those rumours to be nothing more than lies circulated by the enemy, designed to instil terror in weak-minded men who looked toward their lands with covetous eyes.

The sight of Herakil's decapitated head - mounted on a pike and ridden through the rebel ranks by Makilor himself - reinforced this, and so both Haradrim and Easterling forces passed the burial mound of the dead strawhead brothers without any further objection. The best part of the whole sorry affair had been Urfand's rage - he was still aggrieved that Makilor won the obedience of both armies when his own threats had not.

Smiling at the memory of his Easterling peer's apoplectic face, he looked up and caught his reflection in the mirror, and his grin widened. Dark eyes feasted on the golden-scaled corslet he boasted (his underlings' wore mere brass), complimented nicely by the golden collar above his scarlet tunic. Even the touch of grey in his gold-threaded hair only served to make him look more important. Scooping up his cloak, he settled it upon his shoulders in one dramatic sweep before fastening it.

He was magnificent!

Feeling the urge to strut, Makilor grabbed a goblet of mead and left his tent. He nodded once at the guards posted outside and they followed him discreetly as he went for a short stroll. Most of the camp was asleep, Haradrim at the eastern end, Easterlings on the west, though a few from both sides were attempting to overcome their rivalry and mix with each other as they swapped war-stories by campfires.

Probably trying to out-boast each other, he thought with a grin. Or taking bets on whose force could set fire to more enemy ships. Not that it was a contest: the Haradrim had brought their revered Mûmakil for this purpose: only those honoroud beasts were tall enough for an archer to shoot continually _and_ accurately at enemy sails. Without sails, ships were crippled, and that made them easier targets for the boatsmen, whose vessels were being transported on wains accompanying the warriors.

The thought made him huff. It would have been easier to despatch ships down the Anduin to attack this strange new enemy's fleet, but only the Corsairs had enough vessels for such a task and they were all engaged at Pelargir. The only extra vessels the Corsairs_ had_ managed to cobble into a fleet should even now be sailing up the Anduin, ready to attack the alleged Emperor of Mars' destructive starships from behind, while the Haradrim and their Easterling allies would attack from the fore.

_Mars._

What a strange name! Makilor had never heard of it, or of any emperor thereof, let alone such strange vessels as 'star' ships, and he had travelled far and wide over a span of forty-six years in his role as first a spy, then a mere soldier, and now a mighty chieftain. He had heard of Gondor and Rohan (who hadn't), and even a rumour of some filthy elvish realms which were said to infest the West, but never a realm called Mars.

Back on the Harad Road, where he and Urfand's forces had first been ordered to divert west along the Anduin by one of the Dark Lord's feared lieutenants, he had even tried to question the Black Rider about the veracity of this heretofore unheard of emperor's claims, but the dreaded being was annoyingly uncooperative, simply replying: 'Lord Sauron commands thee to intercept this new Enemy, this Darth Dumble-dore. Destroy his fleet, but capture him and return him to Barad-dûr unspoiled. And never question our Master's motives again, fool, or thou shalt become as familiar with the delights of the Houses of Lamentation as our newest foe is destined to!'.

With that, the wraith had flown back to Mordor and a subdued Makilor marched west down the Anduin.

Somewhere nearby a horse whickered, and his dark eyes sought it out, one amongst a group of many tethered for the night. He watched absently as its tail flicked from side to side. Raising his goblet, the chieftain took another long draught of mead, savouring the tangy taste. It reminded him of his tropical homeland and fourteen lissom wives.

How he missed them! And his eighty-four children (eighty five come Summer).

Still, maybe he could find a wench in Gondor to amuse himself with when his task was finished? As it was Makilor might have to march all the way to the Ethir Anduin before Dumbledore's fleet was spotted and crushed! If that was the case, he could always head for the Black Lands via Dol Amroth. True, it was a rather enormous diversion, but he'd heard from many a spy that the Gondorian princess was a renowned beauty. After he burned her city, she would be his, a lovely spoil of war to do his bidding or die.

No, Makilor was indeed_ not_ a harsh man. But the princess was an enemy, and as such _she_ would deserve it ...

Pleased by the prospect of a royal fling with an unwilling partner, he took a deep breath of the fresh night air, relishing its sweetness, and thinking how very good his life was.

Just as the smug chieftain was about to head back to his bedroll, it happened: a huge flash of bright light at the eastern edge of the camp burst through the night, followed by a shrill, screeching wail which rose higher, higher, and higher. It pulled men from both bedrolls and tents within seconds. Dozens turned into hundreds then thousands as flash after wail after flash ripped sleep from everyone's eyes, leaving them bemused but alert. Scimitars were drawn and cries of '_What goes forth there?_' and "_Calm the horses! Man the __Mûmakil_!' rang out, though they were lost amid the frightened whinnies and trumpetings of said beasts.

"Guards, tell Muinor to assemble the men. Have them armed and mounted forthwith! I want a sortie of archers heading for those bushes within two minutes!" yelled Makilor, unsheathing his scimitar and leaping forward to investigate the disturbance.

One of the guards following him raced away to find the chieftain's lieutenant whilst the other remained to tail his leader across the grassy plain. By this time, the clamour of wails was terrific, and Makilor had to cover his ears with his hands while he ran. Then, without any warning, the flashing light and dreadful caterwauling suddenly ceased.

The sudden silence was almost louder than the wails before it, and it brought the aged chieftain to a halt. Peering uneasily into the darkness, he attempted to ascertain the source of the disturbance, but his eyesight was still reeling from the after effects of the flashes.

His hearing, however, was still in perfect condition, enabling him to understand each and every word uttered by the terrible, haunting voice that started booming over the plain …

"WHO GOES THERE? WHO HAS DARED TO DISTURB THE SANCTUARY OF THE HAUDH-IN-GWANÛR_? _REVEAL YOURSELF!"

The remaining guard behind him gave a girly scream and fled, leaving the slack-jawed Makilor to stare ahead at the darkness in blank disbelief. What in all the fires of Mordor was happening?

"I SAID REVEAL YOURSELF!" boomed the dreadful voice, as men everywhere began to back away nervously.

"Man your horses instantly!" growled Makilor, pulled from his shock by the sound of many manly whimpers. "We are the proud Haradrim! We bow before none but the Dark Lord Sauron! We shall not be cowed by a voice – a mere ghost of His glorious power. Man your horses! Ready for attack!"

To their credit, many obeyed, but some did not.

"The Curse of Poros! The Curse of Poros has caught up with us!" yelled an Easterling who had dared the Haradrim camp (and now probably wished that he hadn't).

"It is as I believed," cried another – one of his own men. "Herakil had the right of it: we ought not to have dared the pass! Now we shall pay grievously ..."

Infuriated by the reminder of his dead captain, Makilor stormed across to the offending soldier before he could finish speaking and sliced his neck. The man fell dead at his feet.

"I said _man your steeds_," he warned the others dangerously, glaring at first one shocked face then another as his blade dripped blood onto the grass. "There is no curse on the Crossings! 'Tis but rumour and lies spread to addle your wits, or what you have of them. I will prove to you that there is no curse, and that what you see is but enemy trickery! You will follow me as I ride to meet these villains and ..."

Whatever he had been about to say nobody ever discovered, for at that moment his attention was caught by a new phenomenon. A strange, hazy green mist appeared where the flashes had originated, growing upwards and outwards, spreading coldness and dread as it seeped to the edge of the camp. Makilor felt the blood freezing in his veins as, from within its depths, a figure on horseback slowly emerged. Tall it was, with long fair hair tinged green by the ethereal light. Broad and strong it looked, holding reins in one hand and wielding a flashing red sword in the other. Dead were its eyes, cold and hard as they swept the perimeter of the camp. It seemed to grow in stature, doubling, tripling in size, until it drew the terrified gaze of every man and beast upon the plain. Its horse was an enormous dark monster with ruby eyes and nostrils that breathed fire.

Somebody cried out in terror, many people backed away, but thousands of others ground to a standstill – man and beast alike – as they gaped in stunned awe at the terrifying sight.

"ENEMIES OF GONDOR, FAITHLESS FOOLS, DESECRATORS OF THE DEAD, HEAR ME NOW: YOU HAVE DARED PASS THE TOMB OF FOLCRED AND FASTRED, GUARDIANS OF THE WEST, INTENT ON DEVILRY IN THE LANDS WE PROTECT. _BUT IT WILL NOT BE PERMITTED!_ LAY DOWN YOUR ARMS AND FLEE THIS INSTANT OR YOU WILL SUFFER THE CONSEQUENCES. YOU HAVE BUT MINUTES TO REACH A DECISION: SOD OFF OR DIE, THE CHOICE IS YOURS."

Makilor blinked. _Sod off? _What manner of strange vernacular was that?

Without further explanation, the spectre faded back into the mist and was gone, though the majority of its audience remained staring transfixed at the spot it had so recently occupied.

Not so Makilor. Instinct told him that the spectre was nothing more than enemy trickery. If it was what it claimed – the ghost of Gondor's slain strawhead ally – then where was its equally dead brother? And why wait so long to attack Sauron's force when it had passed their tomb days before?

No, it just wasn't right. First the mysterious Emperor of Mars, then a fleet of starry ships sailing up the Anduin, and now an attack from beyond the grave? Bah! If this was genuine, then he was a virgin!

Makilor dashed west across the plain towards his tent, shouting orders for his forces to be ready to ride within five minutes. All around him men rushed to pack their bedrolls and belongings, to extinguish fires, and mount their horses. Even his tent was hastily torn down and, as he reached its remains, he found Muinor awaiting him with a contingent of lesser chieftains; all bore looks of grim determination upon their weathered faces.

"Sir, the camp is being disassembled as we speak," exclaimed Muinor, stating the obvious. "I have a sortie of two hundred men already mounted and awaiting further command."

"When next that _thing_ appears it must be met head on. It must be completely and utterly destroyed so that all may see it is no more threat to them than a babe with a teething ring. Lead them forward yourself, Muinor – use one of the Mûmakil. That will both prove our might and reassure the horde of frightened old wives I seem to have mistaken for mighty Haradrim warriors not ten minutes since!"

Muinor rushed to obey his leader's orders, leaving Makilor with his other subordinates. One of the lesser chieftains moved to speak but he cut him off with an impatient wave of his hand.

"See to it that a unit of two hundred riders is despatched left and right of the eastern camp edges also. We must ensure that thing is surrounded as quickly as possible, else it may flee when Muinor attacks. I want it destroyed!"

"How can we, mere Men, destroy that which is already dead?" demanded one of his bearded companions. "Did you not hear what it said? 'Folcred and Fastred, Guardians of the West'. They are the very brothers whose evil spirits guard the Crossings of Poros – and we invoked their ire when we crossed that bridge! Now their phantoms have followed us here to wreak their vengeance upon us."

"There was but one rider present, not two!" shouted Makilor, spitting with anger. "If the Curse of the Crossings is as real as you believe then where was the other? And why did they wait so long to attack us, hmm? I tell you there are no evil spirits, there is no curse. This is merely some trickery of the Enemy to confuse and divide us. Now do as I say and get those units ready while I consult with our allies. Go!"

Not waiting around to see his orders obeyed, the furious chieftain turned on his heel and went in search of his horse. Soon he was mounted and thundering toward Urfand's tent on the other side of the camp, a blingy behemoth sparkling in the moonlight. Unfortunately the Easterling chief was nowhere in sight.

"Where is your leader?" he demanded of a golden-armoured man, who was simultaneously organising mounted archers into neat ranks whilst shouting orders at a another group of riders. Within seconds their horses sped off, fanning out across the plain. It was only then that Makilor realised both they, and the archers, were facing the wrong direction.

They were facing west – away from the disturbance at the other side of the field.

Only when his subordinates had left did the Easterling captain acknowledge his ally's query, pointing a long finger to his right. Makilor twisted in his seat to find the other chieftain riding back from the river.

"What is the meaning of this?" he barked at Urfand, who pulled up alongside him. "Why are your men heading west when the Enemy is to the east."

"The _Enemy_ is sailing up the Anduin, or have you forgotten?" enquired Urfand evenly. "We have no orders to engage spirits that you, in your foolishness, provoked."

Makilor's eyes widened in outrage. "You dare to call me foolish? I ought to carve out your tongue for that insult! But this is not the time for dissention, so I shall let it pass. For now. As it is, the immediate threat to us lies east of the camp, not untold miles down the river, or have your scouts reported something that mine have not?"

Urfand was unfazed by his sarcasm. "The threat you speak of is no threat to the Easterlings. It was a Harad chieftain who provoked the wrath of Gondor's dead allies – so let the Haradrim contend with it. Your force is nearer the afflicted border, and your men are brave, in their way; I am certain they will crush the threat raised by their own leader in no time. Or not. Either way the dead Rohan princes may be satisfied enough with Haradrim sacrifices to leave us in peace, that we may finish the task set by our Mordorian master."

So incensed was he by this insult, that Makilor drew his scimitar. It was a futile move: he was surrounded by angry, sword-wielding Easterlings within moments.

"Think carefully about what you do next, Chieftain of Harad," drawled Urfand lazily. "If you attempt to strike at me – or to sway my men thereafter with your bluster and ignorance, as you did at Poros - they will strike you down long before your forces lose themselves to Rohan's wraithly wrath."

The Easterling chieftain circled him, grinning smugly, and it was all Makilor could do not to reach over and stab him in the throat (though the threat of being skewered by half a dozen sneering, blade-wielding men gave him motivation enough to control his temper).

He was about to proclaim his sort of ally a traitor when a ghastly voice interrupted him.

_The_ voice.

"SO YOU HAVE DECIDED TO DEFY US," boomed the strange new foe, whose dulcet tones carried easily across campsite. All motion on the field stopped as every eye, man and beast, swung to face the ethereal green mist swirling ever larger off the eastern border. "SO BE IT. IF YOU REFUSE TO SOD OFF, THEN YOU WILL DIE. WITNESS NOW THE WRATH OF THE SONS OF FOLCWINE UNLEASHED!"

An uneasy silence fell when the voice faded. Horses pawed at the ground while their riders shifted nervously in their seats. Men waited expectantly, staring into the darkness ahead, unsure of what was about to happen. Minutes passed as the silence deepened, and tension ratcheted to an almost unbearable level. Makilor could hear the rush of blood through his ears, see the breath fogging before him, little puffs of white – no! They had mysteriously turned grey and were taking the form of skulls ...

But it wasn't his breath at all, as he soon discovered. From the direction of their new nemesis floated a strange dark cloud which broke up into smaller pieces and whizzed all across the plain. Multiple mini skull-shapes of deep grey cloud with snakes oozing from their mouths ...

His blood curdled, his heart was banging uncontrollably in his chest, and sweat popped out on his forehead.

He_ hated_ snakes!

But Makilor couldn't drag his eyes from the smoky menaces, and aforementioned eyes nearly boggled out their sockets when a skull floated down towards him. The snake within slid partly out from its ghastly mouth, mere inches from his face now; and a forked tongue peeped almost shyly from its lips, then the mouth opened fully and a terrible hissing demand issued forth ...

"_Where isss Harry Potter?!"_

He jumped in fright and the horse shied beneath him.

_Who in the name of Mordor was Harry Potter?_

All around him, the smoky skulls hovered before Haradrim and Easterling alike screaming '_Bring me Harry Potter!_', or '_Deliver the Potter boy sssoon or prepare to play with your own intessstinesss!_'.

There was no time to react because something else was happening. Horses across the plain began to snort and shy for no apparent reason, then, within moments, a series of loud honks blared from the eastern edge of the camp, slowly working their way forward. They were easy to track by the horses that bucked as they passed, and the clouds of smoke they emitted, spooking everyone and everything. Soon they were everywhere, and Makilor's jaw dropped when he spied a tiny horn rushing past him on spindly legs. It stopped a few feet away, honked horribly, then let off a great puff of choking smoke before dashing further up the field. Several others followed in its wake.

A few hundred yards away, the dreaded figure of their new foe appeared through the billowing green mist again – yet this time, he was not alone. Another phantom appeared at his side, glowing evilly, identical in every way but one: though he sat at a level with his brother, there was naught but fresh air beneath him. He was indeed elevated, but ...

_... there was no demon horse beneath him_!

Realisation struck him, albeit belatedly.

_The twin brother!_

A feeling of deepest dread crept over the Haradrim Supreme Chieftain then, and even though he heard the trumpet of a Mûmak charging the twin spectres, even though two hundred defiant men raced behind it, and two hundred more raced to flank it on either side, Makilor knew with a strange sort of certainty that their efforts would be in vain.

Sure enough, the chargers didn't even reach their targets before the Mûmak ground to a halt, raised its enormous trunk high into the air, and trumpeted in fright. Horrified, Makilor watched helplessly as it reared on its gigantic back legs. All around it, horses reared in kind, and droves of panicking riders fought to hold onto reins before they were tossed to the ground and trampled.

Not all were successful.

Human death cries rang out as horses and Mûmak alike turned about and charged back onto the plain behind, crushing men beneath their hooves and scattering dozens of others in their wake. Makilor could just see the towering structure on the Mûmak's back shuddering as the creature veered to the south. Whatever had spooked the animal must have followed in its wake for it reared again. Tiny figures fell screaming from its archery platform and soon he was devoid of his faithful lieutenant.

Abandoning his feud with Urfand, Makilor charged back down the field yelling "Archers! More archers to the eastern border!"

No sooner had he uttered the words when a volley of arrows flew high into the sky, heading straight for their unwelcome guests. The archers must have been already preparing, and he grunted in approval. As the missiles headed towards them, the horseless spectre rose into the air, waving his hand in an unheard command and – to the chieftain's disbelief – the arrows stopped in midair, turned in one deadly curve, and headed straight back where they came from. There was a collective shout of dismay as men and beasts surged away from them, but they were not quick enough.

The spectre paid no heed to their death throes; it kept rising, rising, high into the air, and every archer brave enough continued to fire arrows in the hope of felling the supernatural creature.

It was the last thing they ever did.

Guffawing horribly, it rose higher still, until men were craning their necks to keep track of it, then suddenly it leaned forward. The motion sent it zooming across the plain as if it were mounted on an invisible flying horse: people fled from it in absolute terror when it lifted its hand and shouted _"Slither!"_

At its command, the sky beneath it began to rain – but not with mere water ...

"_Snakes on the plain! There are snakes on the plain!_" bellowed someone as the spectre whizzed overhead.

Makilor didn't even wait to find out out if it was true: he nudged his steed back in the direction of the traitorous Easterlings and followed madly in their wake as they raced into the west, veering right to circle the looming hills. Already he could hear horses whinnying in terror as they ignored the pleas of their hysterical riders to race for the safety of either the open southern plain, or the western hills he was heading for himself. Somewhere behind him, not far from the riverbank, the remaining Mûmakil trumpeted with fright as snakes headed in their direction, and he could feel the_ thud, thud, thudding_ of massive feet as they thundered every which way in an effort to dodge their tormentors, stomping on man and horse alike in their terror.

Like one possessed he rode, determined not to be caught by the monsters which hunted him from behind. Adrenalin flooded his system and a feeling almost of joy followed quickly in its wake as he realised he was nearing the hills. Soon, very soon, he would be free of the carnage behind him.

Or maybe not ...

From somewhere behind him, the voice of the first spectre suddenly boomed across the confusion of screams and whinnies and trumpetings.

"ARISE, DUMBLEDORE'S ARMY! ARISE AND FIGHT!"

_Dumbledore's _Army? Dumbledore, the Emperor of Mars, who was supposed to have a fleet of ships sailing up the Anduin at that very moment?

There was no time to ponder the issue. A jet of red light shot overhead and Makilor cringed in his seat as the horseless twin sped overhead.

And then the ground began to shake.

It started at the hills initially, a strange rumble resounding from behind them – or was it on top of them? The sweating chieftain couldn't tell at first. A faint, rhythmic thumping grew louder and louder the nearer he drew to what he thought might be his sanctuary. Then, rising out of the darkness on the hills ahead as they crested the summit, he saw them: a row of tall ivory figures being led down the hill by an enormous horse bearing an even bigger rider.

With a_ very_ long sword.

Dismay swept him as they thundered down the hills towards them. These new arrivals seemed mannish in appearance, yet not mannish at all, for some of them towered well over fifteen feet high, and their movement was not _quite_ fluid enough ...

Makilor could almost taste the fear of the Easterlings ahead as they swerved inexplicably to the left. Trepidation overcame him then and he slowed his steed. Raising his generous bulk from the saddle, he discovered more of the strange ivory figures streaming toward the plain from the direction of his escape route, effectively cutting it off. Monstrous soldiers clad in white stormed onto the plain, brandishing wicked swords as they ran. Yet there were also men (and women!) streaming towards his allies wielding what appeared to be _stony lutes and harps_.

Horrified, Makilor realised he was watching a small army of statues come to life. Some thundered down the plain at an unbelievable pace, dealing out fear and death as they ran, while others headed straight toward the vanguard of the Easterling army. He watched in morbid fascination as the mounted leader crashed into it, swiping and hacking at enemy flesh with his blade.

At least that took care of Urfand.

To their credit, the Easterlings were trying to fight back, if the clash of steel against marble was anything to go by, and several of them raised halberds and charged the figure of a tall stone woman in an attempt to topple her. But steel and wood had no effect against her rock hard torso: the halberds merely snapped in two, and charging riders tried desperately to move out of her way as she swung a huge harp at them in retaliation. Two unlucky men were hit with such force that they were unseated and went flying clear across their comrades before crashing into a rampaging Mûmak.

The Haradrim captain had seen enough: he was not as keen to test the mettle of his own sword against the invincibility of stone, and so he turned around and urged his horse back down the field, determined to gather what men he could and flee. The only question was: where to go? He couldn't head to Mordor, for that would mean telling the Dark Lord that they hadn't remained to take care of his new enemy's fleet. He couldn't head back home either, or he and his men would be executed as traitors. As it was, both of these options also presented the now-dreaded prospect of crossing the Poros and further invoking the ire of the Terrible Twins. What if their ghosts pursued him and his men all the way back to Far Harad?

No, There was nothing else for it: superstition or not, he would either have to stay and fight or flee south for a few miles then veer west again – that way, he could return to the river farther down and continue on his mission.

Something landed on his knee, pulling him from his thoughts, and he yelled in fright when an ugly green toad with a big black bow stared back up at him. It opened its mouth and shouted '_I am a Ministry-trained educational expert, I'll have you know!'_

Sauron's flaming Eye! Who cared?

Swatting it away in disgust, he galloped back down the plain, trying to rally his men into some semblance of order. It wasn't easy; the campsite was in chaos. Marble foes attacked from the west, snakes and toads from the east, the horseless spectre flew overhead thwarting any attempt to shoot him down by returning volley after volley of arrows to their unlucky owners, and somewhere up ahead, he could now spy the other spectre – the mounted one. It dove into the melee with a wild laugh and started shooting coloured lights from its fingertips (or so it seemed from this distance). A huge black cloud appeared as if from nowhere, directly above a company of Haradrim swordsmen. and, within seconds, torrential rain poured down upon them. Another burst of colour from the spectre, and suddenly the cloud rumbled viciously: multiple bolts of lightning shot forth from it, striking his men and frying them where they stood. Seeing it, everyone nearby scattered, and Makilor had to dodge yet another rampaging mûmak as it fled from honking horns, skulls demanding the immediate delivery of the mysterious '_Potter rotter!",_ and a horde of horny toads toads in hot pursuit loudly declaring, _"Oh Argus, I** do** love you!"._

Makilor drew up short, surveying the once ordered campsite in dismay. How could it all have went so horribly, horribly wrong? His dreams of a swift victory against the Emperor's fleet had been dashed by the appearance of a sudden, unexpected, and very bizarre land assault. Glory in battle was now looking highly unlikely because he couldn't even manage to muster his terrified men enough to fight back. As for finding comfort in the arms of a nubile princess ...

Something dark flew up from the ground and smacked his horse in the face. It reared, whinnying in shock, and the Harad chieftain toppled backwards. He landed on ground with a _whump!_ Terrified, he sprang back up into a defensive posture with sword and shield in hand, looking around wildly for snakes, but they seemed to have disappeared. Vastly relieved that, at last, fortune was smiling upon him, he made a grab for the horse's reins, but his not-so-trusty steed had bolted south across the plain, well away from the bangs, clashes, screams, trumpetings and altogether mass confusion of the campsite. Another dark shape rose up from the ground, though this time it smacked _him_ on the face. Coughing and spluttering, Makilor wiped at it furiously, discovering that he had been struck by a great lump of dirt. Dark eyes fell to the ground just in time to see another huge lump detach itself from the earth before he was smacked once again.

Deciding he'd had enough, and that his horse had the right of it, Makilor wiped his face again, gripped his weapons securely, and started racing south. He lashed out with his sword at anything which moved, catching even a few of his own men. Nearer and nearer he drew to the southern edges of the camp, and just beyond it the plain seemed blissfully foe-free. Many others seemed to catch on to his plan, and soon there was a growing army of riders behind him, all desperate to be rid of the supernatural terrors they had unwittingly unleashed by daring the Crossings of Poros. One blessed man even leaned down a hand to help him up, and Makilor was just reaching out to grab it when he heard a familiar, terrifying sound.

_Thump! Thump! Thump!_

"No!" he cried in dismay as the ground began to rumble, and the formerly foe-free southern horizon was now blighted by the appearance of deadly white shapes running not _quite_ smoothly towards the fleeing troops. But even the statues – as terrifying as they were – were nothing, _nothing_ compared to the headless army that reared up behind them ...

Horses everywhere began rearing once more, eyes rolling, mouths foaming, and he could feel the rush of wind as their hooves flailed dangerously close. Panicked screams split the air and grown men wept in utter terror when the newest battalion of the supernatural army began charging onto the field. As one, he and his men turned and they raced back across the field, an unwilling vanguard for the enemy behind.

But Makilor was rapidly falling far, far behind his mounted compatriots, and it scared him to his bones. Nevertheless, he bravely soldiered on (having no other choice) and headed north, aiming for the only haven left: the River Anduin.

If he could only make it! _If only he could!_ He'd swim all the way across to Pelargir, if he must, and face humiliation at the hands of the cocky Corsairs who had reportedly conquered it. Any port in a storm, after all.

Alas! It was not to be. His legs simply wouldn't carry his bulk fast enough, and no riderless horse (of which there were now many) would stop long enough for him to grab the reins and haul himself onto its back. Not that that would help him anyway ...

The sudden rush of wind above him made him look up, and what he saw there made Makilor wail like a newborn.

A _flying_ statue! _An airborne marble swan!_

It spotted him, and swooped lower, circling him like a predator. Desperately he struck at its outstretched neck with his sword, but the weapon merely glanced off it harmlessly. The swan rose again, then dove, and this time Makilor tried to ward it off with his spiked shield, to no effect. One final time it rose, though the Harad chieftain didn't bother waiting around to contend with it. Instead, he fled, frantically trying to outpace it as he headed for the Anduin.

He heard the beat of its stony wings behind him, and his heart boomed against his chest as the survival instinct kicked in, lending him a huge burst of energy. It drove him forward faster than he had ever run before, yet even then his efforts were futile. Webbed feet grabbed at his shoulders, and the powerful marble grip behind them almost crushed him as he was dragged, kicking and screaming, into the air. Abandoning his weapons, he clutched at the monstrous feet with both hands, trying to dislodge them as he flew higher than even the tallest tower on a mûmak. Something else flew past him then – the horseless spectre – and it waved at him cheerily as he was dropped from a height of over fifty feet. Makilor fell to the ground, arms flapping futiley, screaming all the way, and landed with a horrible series of snaps and cracks ...

... directly into the path of one of the riderless, terrified mûmakil.

He couldn't even feel the pain of his injuries, as utterly transfixed by the sight of death stampeding towards him as he was. Just before it arrived, one of the bizarrely beribboned toads hopped onto his shattered ribcage and stared at him smugly.

"_Hem, Hem. You have breached Educational Decree Number Twenty-Four, Amendment A, by forming an illegal society/team/group/club OR army. Punishment shall be forthcoming!_"

With that, the prophetic toad hopped off to safety, leaving Makilor - and his dreams of a dastardly dalliance with the pretty princess from Dol Amroth - to be crushed seconds later under the enormous foot of a creature he once loved ...

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Author's Note_: Some dialogue taken from Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Chapter 12: _Professor Umbridge_ (Bloomsbury Edition, Page 218).

The loose-ends of the battle will be tied up in two chapters' time (I'm too exhausted to do it now). Up next: Augusta unleashes her wrath on the marauding Mordorians.

Eru help them …

Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it,

Kara's Aunty ;)


	42. Surprise, surprise!

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. and Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

**Credit: **en-wikia, hp & lotr wikias

**Dedication: **To Paganimagus, for making me see sense. Thanks ;)

**Chapter 42**

* * *

___Mount Taniquetil, Undying Lands_

_Third Age 13th March 3019_

"Is it done?" Manwë asked of his wife as she sagged slightly before him on the settle. Gently, he eased his arm around her and pulled her to him, so that she rested her shining head upon his shoulder.

"It is," replied the loveliest of the Valar. "I have warned the Lady Augusta to remain within the City walls. Yet even so I cannot be certain that the Enemy will be thwarted."

He frowned down at her worriedly. "What dost thou mean?"

Starlight eyes raised themselves to meet his. "Thou sawest as did I, my love, what the Window of Arda displayed. 'Tis not merely the threat from Mordor we must fear. Defrocked as he has been of his power, it is Saruman the Deceiver who has now set in motion a chain of events which may cause a Darkness that even Sauron himself could not have dreamed of."

"Thou speak'st of his pact with the Ringwraith, Khamûl." Manwë stroked Varda's hair absently as he pondered the latest wrinkle in their plan to help the Fellowship bring about the downfall of the Dark Lord. When he had agreed to bring Neville Longbottom to Arda to replace Gandalf, the possibility of the boy being transformed into one of the dreaded Nazgûl had never crossed his mind. And though the thought of it sorrowed him, for the boy's sake, he failed to see how this might be a worse scenario than Sauron conquering the West. "'Tis indeed a dastardly scheme, turning the child into a Wraith. With his magic, he would be a power more dreadful than the Witch-king of Angmar ever was – perhaps even powerful enough to challenge Sauron himself, if the Dark Lord cannot control him."

The Vala gently straightened his wife and gazed into her eyes. "Yet even if Neville Longbottom were fated for such a terrible existence," he continued, "he would still fall with the remaining Nazgûl if – nay – _when_ Sauron is defeated."

Varda shook her lovely head. "Nay, beloved. Woeful though such a fate would be, I speak not of that. 'Tis Saruman's final act as a Maia which troubles me now."

"His creation of the _Longbottom's Bane_ plant? Be not troubled over that! 'Tis little more than a fool's last grasp at vengeance. Even if his crebain manage to deliver it, it will not incapacitate the magic of its intended target for longer than mere moments, and his Guardian will be there to protect him if that occurs."

"It will incapacitate his magic and any that he bears _upon_ him for mere moments."

"Bears upon him?"

"Hast thou forgotten what my champion asked of us ere he left for Middle-earth?"

"To have his Guardian protected from all harm? How could I have forgotten such a bold request – it has cost thee some of thy Light," grumbled Manwë. Not that he had begrudged the boy his request: in fact, he admired him for selflessly securing the Lady Molly's safety when he himself could not enjoy the same favour. And he knew it would be returned safely, for they had both given their word to keep it safe. Nevertheless, it was difficult for him to see his beloved weakened by its loss, however temporary.

His spouse regarded him gravely. "It may end up costing more than that."

Alarmed, he turned slightly in his seat, so that he faced her fully. "What dost thou mean by this? What has this to do with _Longbottom's Bane_?"

"Dost thou recall when the boy was wounded during the Battle of the Hornburg?"

"Helm's Deep? I do. Yet he recovered well."

"Praise Eru in his grace! And the son of Longbottom will continue to thrive from henceforth. Indeed, nothing shall ever harm him in Arda again, unless it be the blade of a Morgul knife."

Realisation dawned, quickly followed by horror.

"Sayest thou that the_ boy_ now bears thy Light?"

"His Guardian bestowed it upon him when he was yet recovering from his injury. The Lady Molly, believing that she has failed once in her duty to protect him, is unwilling to risk any such recurrence. She would rather fall herself than lose her charge."

Manwë blanched. "But Saruman will undoubtedly have more of the cursed plant in Orthanc! If his plan to capture the boy bears fruit, then Lady Molly's spell will be undone and the Light of Varda will fall into his hands! Former Maia that he now is, he will still recognise it for what it is: a weapon more powerful than even the One Ring itself! And he will have the necessary knowledge to corrupt it; he will wield it to enact his vengeance upon those who have stripped him of his power! Art thou aware of the ramifications? Darkness will cover not only Middle Earth – it will stretch out its fingers across the Sea and touch even Valinor itself! Arda will fall!"

He looked at his wife and knew acute terror. With one swift motion he gathered her in his arms and crushed her to him. "Yet worse than even that, the eternal loss of thy Light will destroy thee! How did I miss this? How could I not have foreseen this?"

"Where thou must answer the Call, I may linger yet before the Mirror, cherished one. I alone saw what thee could not."

Pulling away from her, Manwë rose and paced the Hall of Reception, berating himself still.

"I ought never to have agreed with the boy's request to grant his Guardian such favour!"

"We agreed, not thee alone," corrected his wife.

The response irked him. "Then he ought not to have accepted it from her! He knows thy Light was given specifically to protect his Guardian – why take it from her now?"

"He knows not that he bears it."

Sapphire blue robes swished as he pivoted around to face her. "How can thy Chosen One _not_ know, if his Guardian entrusted it to his care!"

Varda rose a little shakily, and Manwë rushed to assist her. "The Lady Molly secretly secured it upon his breast while he was yet insensible in the Glittering Caves. She has used a cunning spell so that he remains unaware of its presence."

"She ought not to have done that," replied her husband. "Thy gift was given to her."

"My gift was imparted to honour him as much as it was intended to protect her. I had not foreseen that she would part with it to protect him, yet it matters not which of the two bears it, as long as they understand that it must remain with them until such time as they return to our Halls. Lady Molly is no fool – she would not have surrendered my gift unless she was assured of its safekeeping, and I myself witnessed her precautions on its behalf. Furthermore, I approved of them. Perhaps had she known of Saruman's evil plans to ensnare the boy - and by what methods he hopes to achieve this - she might not have parted with it at all, even for the love of her charge. Nay, beloved, the fault lies not with her. It lies where it ever does, with the bringers of evil."

Knowing she was right did not make it any easier to hear. Saruman might yet have the chance to use Molly's love to his advantage if the boy were delivered to him bearing the Light of Varda. Evil was ever ready to exploit any flaw or weakness – especially love. He should know that better than any! He who once could not fathom the true meaning of evil! Was it not his own compassionate nature that led to Melkor's release? If he had not understood evil before, then he most certainly did now. Yet he also understood love. And the Enemy always underestimated it!

A thought struck him then. Perhaps they could use this to their advantage?

Manwë scrutinised his wife closely, studying her pale features and the faint sheen of perspiration on her brow. Lifting a hand, he wiped it away with the sleeve of his robe. "Thou hast not the strength for another dream warning; not to thy champion, nor his Guardian – not even to Mithrandir himself, though there is little even he could achieve with Minas Tirith in such peril. And it may take thee near a week to recover from thy exertions. I might hail Irmo, though it will take him a day or two to arrive. Yet the fate of Arda has not the luxury of waiting so long. Already Master Longbottom's time is short: if the crebain have not found him now, they will soon. The longer the delay, the nearer the boy draws to Minas Tirith. If Khamûl were to secure him so close to Mordor, he may renege on his promise to Saruman and take the boy directly to Barad-dûr. Either way, it will be disastrous for us all. Nay, something must be done to prevent this. _Immediately_."

"What hast thou in mind?"

"Let us use love against those who would be swift to use it against us, for they are ever swift to underestimate its power." Seeing the question in her eyes, he elaborated. "What we need are reinforcements."

Varda's brow lifted in surprise. "Thou wouldst call more from her world to aid us?"

Smiling, he touched his hand to her cheek cupping it gently. "Have we not asked enough of her world? Nay, I shall not disturb any more of those good people. Yet there are those now beyond the boundaries of that world we might hail ..."

**XXX**

The two figures who exited the Void at Manwë's command not three hours since stood now before the Window of Varda, observing as the images upon it faded, and it resumed its silvery sheen once more.

"Ye have now seen what has occurred thus far, and what yet may, if we do not act swiftly. Time is of the essence. Indeed 'tis precious – we may barely have enough for ye to act. But we ask that ye make the attempt, for the sake of us all. Are ye both willing to aid us?"

Manwë and Varda regarded their guests with solemn eyes.

"I distinctly recall mentioning something about the next great adventure," said the taller of the pair. "Who would have thought it might be this? I, for one, will be delighted to assist you. And if I know anything about the young man standing next to me, I very much believe he will too."

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore looked down his crooked nose to his companion for confirmation.

"From one boiling cauldron into the next, eh Professor?" quipped Fred Weasley with a grin. "I wouldn't miss it for the world!"

The Valar sighed in relief.

Moving away from the Mirror until he stood mere feet from them, Manwë regarded them kindly. "It grieves me to say this when ye have so readily accepted this charge, but we cannot return mortals to their own world after they die. However -" he smiled now "- that does not exclude ye from remaining here. Therefore, as reward for accepting this task, I grant ye both now a life as long as that of the King of Gondor, should he return. Is this acceptable?"

Fred snorted. "I won't say no. It won't be easy living without George, but as long as the Professor's here as a living link to what I've left behind, I'll manage. Besides, I never thought I'd ever see Mum again – not in the flesh anyway; at least now I'll get the chance to say a proper goodbye to her."

"And I am not opposed to the idea of discovering the delights of your world myself – particularly after those nice long chats I had with Gandalf!" said Dumbledore. He folded his hands in front of his purple robe. "Might I ask why – out of all the people you might have selected - you chose Fred and I for this task?"

There was a moment's silence, then Varda replied. "Fred I chose because I promised his mother she would hold him again in her arms ere long."

Manwë reached out his arm and pulled her to him, lending the pale lady the support of his body.

"Thyself I selected, because my wife's Chosen One speaks of thee often, and has a high regard for thee," explained the King of the Valar. "Indeed he has mentioned on occasion that thou wouldst take pleasure in studying the magics of this world and comparing it to thine own. Mithrandir – or Gandalf as thou knowest him – confirms this. I know his own delay in returning to these Halls was due to his preoccupation with the 'nice long chats' thou speak'st of ."

Dumbledore chuckled. "So it seems that I am partly responsible for this whole mess. It seems only fair, then, that I help to clean it up."

"'Twas not my intent to lay fault at thy feet," said Manwë, smiling. "Say rather that I have heard from trusted sources that thou art both a powerful Wizard and a wise one. As I in days gone by, thou hast also learned from the errors of thy youth. Thus I would see thee live now a life free of guilt and full of joy, and it would give young Master Longbottom joy to know it was made possible."

There was a definite shine to his guest's blue eyes now.

"Well, I must remember to thank Neville when I see him again," he said softly. Then he blinked, and the moisture was gone. Looking up, the former headmaster clapped his hand together and rubbed them in anticipation. "But first we have to save him! You mentioned that we are short on time. As it happens, I know a way to remedy this. And - quite coincidentally I assure you - I happen to have said remedy. That is, it's locked in the top drawer of my bedroom cabinet in Hogwarts. Somehow I forgot to place it back where it belongs when Miss Granger returned it to me at the end of her third year -" he winked conspiratorially at Fred, who chortled "- and the Ministry never questioned me about it afterwards. Not surprising, given that there was the little matter of me being the Supreme Mugwump of the Wizangamot."

Moisture-free blue eyes twinkled at the Valar.

"I know neither Fred nor I might return to our world - or our time, if you prefer. Neville and Molly's presence, however, proves that you are able to summon people _from_ it. But, tell me, is this extraordinary ability limited only to people, or might you be able to summon an object or two as well?"

Looking very intrigued, Manwë and Varda both nodded.

"As long as the disappearance of the required objects will not affect thy former world in any way; yes," answered the male Vala.

"Excellent! I assure you they will not. Severus never touched my belongings after I died, and Minerva will only send them to storage anyway. There is also the matter of my wand – I believe young Harry laid it back in my tomb a day or two after Voldemort's destruction."

Fred frowned. "What about mine? It's at the Burrow. Percy stuffed it under his pillow when he moved back after the war. No one else knows he found it and he doesn't want to tell anyone in case they take it away. Poor git's really suffering – thinks he should have died instead of me because no one would have missed him as much."

"Survivor's guilt I believe our Muggle friends would call it," remarked Dumbledore sadly. "And as loathe as I am to take advantage of that, we might explain the situation to your mother when we see her. When she returns home, Molly can tell Percy she found it while changing his bedding and thought it unhealthy for him to use your wand as a focal point for his loss. And that is not entirely untrue: grief is better allowed to run its natural course than bottled up and nurtured."

"Though I wish the deception, however small, were unnecessary, 'tis nonetheless an acceptable solution," agreed Manwë.

Dumbledore and Fred beamed in tandem.

"Well then, now that that's taken care of, I believe there is the little matter of a plan of action to be dealt with. Fortunately, I am rather gifted in that particular department, if I do say so myself!"

"Which you just have, so let's get on with it," quipped Fred, grinning cheekily.

"Which I just have," affirmed Dumbledore, smiling first at his freckled companion, then his gracious (if bemused) hosts. "Shall we then do as my astute young companion suggests and 'get on with it'? I believe we have a world to save!"

Thus the four retired to the Hall of Reception and began to plan their strategy to save the world that each now called home.

Some time later - and eons away - two wands and a time-turner vanished into thin air and were never seen again. In _that_ world …

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Author's Note_: Firstly folks, let me apologise for the to-ing and fro-ing of this particular chapter over the past few days. Initially when posted, it was simply an A/N stating that Chapter 29 (which had been completely erased) was now rewritten & reposted. I deleted that notification (& thus chapter) the next morning, thinking it should have reached everyone.

Then I posted this exact chapter last night, but had a change of heart about the content/plot this morning and yanked it before too many of you read it. After further reflection, though, I've just decided to post it and go with the flow. Am a few 'favourites' down now because of it (which has really saddened me) but c'est la vie.

I know I promised an Augusta chapter, and she is coming up next. However, although Dumbledore and Fred have now joined the action, it does not necessarily follow that everything will work out _quite_ as they planned. Not by any manner of means. So please don't give up on NQAM now!

Kara's Aunty ;)


	43. The Wrath of Augusta Longbottom

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. and Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

**Credit: **en-wikia, hp & lotr wikias, mythicalcreaturesguide dot com

**Chapter 43**

* * *

_Minas Tirith_

_Third Age 14th March 3019_

The forces of Mordor never saw her coming.

Barely had Augusta barrelled up the stony stairwell, out onto the sixth level, and across to the battlements when she found someone to hurt. True, it wasn't Molly Weasley, but she was desperate, not fussy …

A wall of sound hit her as she sought a target; jeers, chanting and the unmistakeable howling of wargs which rose from the sprawling field below and swept over Minas Tirith's walls. A heavy chorus of _thump-thump-boom!, thump-thump-booms! _accompanied them, and overhead she could hear the cries of what could only be those horrible noseghouls Denethor had been harping on about so many days ago.

How convenient for her!

How _inconvenient_ for them ...

"Mrs Longbottom! _Mrs Longbottom!_" shouted Gandalf in her wake. She ignored him, just as she ignored the cloak of dread and despair being spread by the Nazgûl.

But she didn't ignore the Nazgûl themselves.

Men dove out of her way (terrified by the sight of her macabre hat), conveniently clearing a path for her to one of the embrasures. The mere thought of Molly Weasley swanning about the planet with her grandson was enough to enrage her, and with her anger swelling and growing ever more furious, she lifted her eyes.

_There!_

The Nazgûl swooped ever and again before the city, spreading fear and dread across it like a dirty blanket.

Excellent!

Augusta raised her wand high into the air.

"_Incendio!_"

The cloak of one of the Black Riders, that which flew nearest, suddenly burst into flame and it spiralled crazily, wailing and shrieking in agony. Flames licked the back of the fell beast it rode upon; the hideous creature bucked wildly, trying to throw its burning rider off. Finally meeting with success, the Nazgûl plummeted to the ground in a cloud of scarlet, orange and thick black smoke, while its mount flew back up the Pelennor, away from the city walls.

"Mrs Longbottom, wait!"

Gandalf's call was drowned out by the huge cheer which rose up all along the city battlements as men took heart at the sight of one of their most deadly foes being incapacitated, and the jeers and yells of the host outside were muffled temporarily as they looked on in shock. But Augusta's anger was not yet spent: indeed, it had barely started.

_When she got her hands on that woman!_

Thankfully, Molly was not available to spend her wrath on, so the very unlucky foes of Gondor got it in her place …

Five more Nazgûl – angered that their brother must now return to Mordor to be recloaked in form before he could continue to harry Gondor – dove en masse towards the source of his injury, looking very much like overgrown flies. Augusta prepared herself to become the world's largest swatter.

Intermittently shooting electric blue sparks into the air to attract them, she hovered expectantly by the wall, wand in hand, until they drew closer, closer, closer still. Their cries grew louder and louder, and those of the cheering men of Gondor more subdued and fearful.

One hundred yards they were from the wall of the city, and all had spied the little old lady glowering at them. Nearby soldiers fled in terror when they swooped as one.

"They're coming!" cried Pippin (unnecessarily), who had miraculously overtaken Gandalf and was now gesticulating wildly at the sky.

"Thank you for pointing that out to me, dear chap," she drawled dryly, her sharp blue eyes narrowed in concentration as the enemy flew ever closer. All around her, men whimpered. Eighty yards, seventy, sixty …

"Mrs Longbottom!" yelled Gandalf, who had finally made it up the staircase and ground to a halt beside her with his staff raised. "Whatever you are going to do, do it now!"

As it happened, the stupid creatures were exactly where she wanted them at that very moment: fifty yards away, flying in a V formation, and ready to swoop down upon her. Cancelling the blue sparks, she lifted her wand, aimed it directly at the leader and cried "_Expecto Patronum Maxima!_"

An absolutely _massive_ silver dolphin burst forth and shot over the battlements. For the briefest of moments it hovered high up in the air as if it were a supernatural king surveying his dominion. Shining like a million watt bulb in the unnatural darkness, it lit Minas Tirith beneath with an almost ethereal beauty so that the city glowed like a beacon beneath it. Cries of amazement filled the streets below, and cries of terror issued from enemies outside, who had paused in dismay to point at it.

Unable to halt their momentum, the Nazgûl met it head on, and the din they made thereafter was truly terrible to hear. Shrill wailing and shrieking split the night, and their dark forms could be seen veering left and right before they turned and fled. The huge patronus split into five smaller dolphin shapes which hunted them relentlessly as they sped back up the Pelennor.

"Consider yourselves swatted, you miserable beggars!" cried Augusta, shaking a fist at them so vigorously that Spot wobbled violently on her head. Somewhere in the darkness, she heard the answering howls of wargs, and the frightened trumpeting of elephants.

Elephants? Who the blazes brought elephants into battle?

Then again, who cared?

"Mrs Longbottom, we have to discuss strategy!" exclaimed Gandalf.

She whirled on him so quickly he stepped back. "Strategy? How about this for a strategy: I'll do as much damage as I possibly can for as long as I possibly can while I'm still in the mood to kill, and you man the troops while I do so. Is that acceptable?"

Pippin laughed in shock.

Without waiting for an answer from her astonished snowy white peer, she spun around and started running across the sixth level, having spotted a huge catapult about to lob a rock at the city. It wasn't the only one, but it was the nearest one.

"Aunt Augusta!" cried a familiar silvery voice, heading her way; a tall, golden-haired elf in silver armour and a golden cloak.

"Not now, Archie. I'm busy!"

With no more greeting than that, she stormed past her splendid (and confused) nephew, stopped by the battlements, and peered below. Deeming the lower levels more suitable to get a better view of her target, she Disapparated.

Augusta appeared on the second level, mere yards from a company of fifty soldiers in gleaming mail, who were en route to the first level. Many of them jumped in fright and raised their swords automatically.

"Don't panic, gentlemen. I'm on your side!" she cried, turning towards the huge wall and peering through an embrasure.

Ah, splendid! A _much _better view of the dastardly cretins!

Even as she watched, a massive troll was loading the catapult she had spotted moments ago. It seemed the enemy were preparing to fight back after the insult to their Nazgûl.

That is, they were _trying_ to fight back ...

Armed with the same determination that saw her generation survive a Muggle World War and a Wizarding one simultaneously, Augusta took aim and fired.

"_Lignucare!_"

A jet of yellow light sped across the no-man's land before the city, almost lost amidst the orangey-red of the enemy's abundant fires, and silently struck the offending catapult. Hardly anyone on the fields noticed, only a few curious orcs caught mid-jeer.

Indeed, for almost a minute, it seemed that nothing had happened. Only the sound of invisible teeth chomping at lightning-speed alerted the trolls manning the structure to a problem, and by then it was too late. The engine collapsed in a pile of sawdust and - lost amidst the noisy confusion – an invisible mouth emitted a loud burp followed by a very embarrassed _'Oh! Pardon me!'_.

Orcs, Uruk-hai and men dove out of the way as redundant heavy metal fixtures came slamming down upon them, and there were several sickening squishes testifying to the fact that not everyone made it in time.

Not that Augusta cared.

Behind her, the fifty soldiers she had frightened half out their wits had flocked to the wall to see what she was up to, and they cried out triumphantly when the catapult collapsed. But more were now being manned, and already the whizz of heavy missiles arcing through the air showed how keen their foes were to strip Gondor of her fledgling hope. Even Augusta couldn't keep track of them all, and while several missiles fell onto the first level as a shower of daisies, others crashed victoriously into barracks, stables and inns. Many burst into flames where they fell, and fire leapt from building to building.

"Water! Water!" cried the captain of the company beside her, gathering his men together and heading for the stricken courtyard below.

"_Pluvia!" _cried the elderly witch, dashing down the road behind the chaps in shining armour. A huge cloud shot from her wand, racing across the stampeding company and spreading itself outwards as it zoomed farther ahead. It stopped a hundred yards away and hung ominously over the first level; no thunder or lightning issued from it, simply a low rumble, followed by a deluge of rain which extinguished fires wherever they sprang up.

Leaving the soldiers to deal with any required evacuations, Augusta returned to the wall and let her gaze sweep the Pelennor. It was a heaving mass of orcs, men, trolls, wargs and creatures she had never seen before in her life, all of whom were sprawled out before the city, preventing any escape by road or river.

To the north of the city, a herd of massive tower-bearing elephants stood to one side, and the Longbottom matriarch could just see men digging trenches and slamming huge stakes into the ground, presumably with the intention of preventing any aid arriving from the North-way. Rivers of fire flowed almost halfway up the plain, carefully tended by orcs so that they did not set fire to the engines behind them. The sound of jeering and chanting and drum-beats was incredible, a living force that could strike fear into even the most stalwart of hearts.

Suddenly, the familiar screech of the Nazgûl sounded once more and – wishing that the Patronus was designed to last a great deal longer than it did – Augusta looked up at the sky. Sure enough, soaring closer to the city, three Ringwraiths sped, shrieking and wailing, as they swooped ever closer. A great cry of despair welled up, and those soldiers manning the embrasures nearest her had difficulty aiming their arrows to fire at them.

"_Expecto Patronum!"_

Her silvery dolphin burst forth once more and flew towards the Nazgûl. Augusta – hoping that a single Patronus would prove too dreadful a reminder of the Black Riders' experience with the previous one – watched in vexation as it managed to frighten off only two. The third, having spotted her, headed directly her way. She could see the dark cloak flapping behind it, and the ugly mount's hideous neck stretching out, its jaws snapping hungrily.

The Green Witch huffed in annoyance, incredibly peeved that Minas Tirith's foes didn't even have the decency to fight fairly. How were people supposed to counter their attack with those blasted creatures zooming about the skies, demoralising them? What a deuced shame that they couldn't be killed!

Yet perhaps they could be distracted – or at least the dragon-birds could?

Her thin lips spread in a smile and, wracking her long memory for the proper incantation, Augusta found what she was looking for just as aforementioned dragon-bird dove at her, sending her poor petrified colleagues scattering in all directions..

"_Rocavis!" _she cried. A flash of indigo light sped towards the open-mouthed beast. At this distance, the creature didn't have time to stop. Blue hit black, and the quasi-dragon was instantly Transfigured into a mythical Roc – a huge white bird with a truly enormous wingspan, deadly slashing claws, and an insatiable appetite for elephants.

How spiffingly convenient!

The Nazgul it bore almost slipped of its back in shock as it struggled to comprehend what had happened. Try as it might, its new steed was not willing to obey the frantic tugs of its reins. With one lazy flap of its massive wings, it soared back into the air and veered north. Less than a minute later it was soaring east with a tasty mûmak-sized snack and a furious rider in tow.

"Aunt! Aunt Augusta! Have my eyes deceived me?" cried the familiar voice of her dashing nephew. Turning, she found he had ground to a halt beside her, and was now shielding his eyes as he tracked the rapidly fading Roc. "That was a Fell Beast not minutes ago!"

"Well of course it was. And now it's not," she replied matter-of-factly. "It might be again in an hour or two, or it might stay a Roc forever – it just depends on whether Sauron knows the spell to cancel it out. Which I sorely doubt."

Glorfindel dropped his arm and gazed at his honorary aunt, his fair face bearing an expression of grim hope. "Is it possible to bewitch the Wraiths themselves ..."

He didn't finish the sentence as she was already shaking her head in the negative. "Unfortunately not. They're essentially undead creatures - whatever Dark magic holds them I simply won't be able to alter it – not even with the best Transfiguration spell. Their stupid dragons, however, are another story. And now that I think about it, so might their cloaks be ..."

Dash it all! Why hadn't that occurred to her before? She could have Transfigured one of them into a pair of pyjamas! The men of Gondor would have been too busy laughing to be afraid after that, no matter how much the noseghouls wailed!

Still, plenty of time to see to that later, if needs must!

Another volley of rocks came hurling towards them and soon Augusta was busy once more, Transfiguring what she could, despatching rain clouds where she could not. It didn't stop the bloodshed, but it markedly reduced the damage that might have been wrought. A handy Ever-Full charm ensured that Floor-kindle was able to fire endless arrows into the advancing ranks

The hours passed, and with each new spell she lobbed against her enemies, Augusta's wrath for Molly faded significantly. It was astonishing how cathartic battle could be. Hexing, jinxing and cursing some of the worst (and ugliest) beings in creation really put the Weasley matriarch's actions into perspective.

Not that Augusta was ready to march up to her and shake hand the next time they met, certainly not. But at least she didn't want to kill her any more.

Not really.

Speaking of killing ...

The enemy was growing more eager to smash its way into the city and – more notably – they were the significantly larger force. As night turned into an equally dark day, and even that whiled away, arrows flew thick and fast to and from the city ramparts and the hosts of Mordor and Harad edged ever closer..

Countless missiles crashed into buildings, spontaneously bursting into flames that were becoming too much for even her overworked cloud to deal with. At one point, the enemy even catapulted the heads of dead Gondorians across the wall, and the screams which answered this were cries of pain as well as dismay.

Disgusted by such underhanded tactics, Augusta redoubled her efforts to demoralise their foes in kind, sending one Nazgûl screeching from the ramparts in rage when she turned its robe into a frilly pink nightdress. The fell beast it rode was soon whizzing up the Pelennor in search of an elephant.

It heartened her comrades for a short while only.

Blood flowed thicker than rainwater in the first level as Prince Imrahil and his forces tried ever and again to stave off one brutal onslaught after another. As the day wore on, even the Nazgûl – cautious as they were about approaching the city proper – had begun daring the front gate, and those fell beasts remaining smashed at the Gondorian trebuchets with long muscular tails destroying them utterly. A cry of despair rose.

"Don't panic, my good fellows!" grumbled Augusta, whose Rocavis spell missed one of the horrid creatures by inches. She aimed a Reparo at the stricken trebuchet and a few beams rose half-heartedly before crashing back to the ground - the apparatus was simply far too large for the spell to be effective.

"Dash it all!" she cursed, waving her wand. A hail of stones rose from the debris-strewn street and – foregoing the hot oil - Augusta Engorged them en masse and sent them flying into the seething enemy host one after another; they produced a series of sickening thumps when they fell. One of her rocks smashed into an enemy missile it met on the way, forcing her to conjure a Shield charm to protect herself when both shattered on impact, sending sharp slivers of rock in all directions. Above her, a mail clad guard tumbled from his parapet and was snatched from the air by a fell beast, which flew away with him before dropping him amidst a pack of wargs. His dying shrieks were lost amidst the general chaos.

Enraged by the spectacle, Floor-kindle rushed up the street, shouting at the archers to aim for the snarling lupines. The Nazgûl who had sent the unlucky Gondorian to his doom returned at that moment, seemingly heartened by its success. Appalled at the nerve of it, Augusta fired a spell into the air, and it struck the ghastly being head on, igniting it. Screeching dreadfully, it soared away across the Pelennor again.

At this same time, Gandalf came riding down the street on a gleaming white horse, shouting encouragement at the men of Gondor.

"Mrs Longbottom! How do you fare?" he called, spotting her as she fired another spell at the enemy machines.

Thinking it a very silly question, given where they were and what they were doing, she replied, "Simply smashing. Of course, a little spellwork of your own wouldn't go amiss at a time like this."

He dismounted and joined her by the ramparts for a moment. Augusta was almost glad of the excuse for a breather (almost).

"My magic lies in motivating others to fight their own battles, not in the casting of spells that would do their work for them," he said, eyeing the grave-faced archers who dotted the walls around them, firing endless volleys at the foes below. "That would make them dangerously dependent on Istari aid, and thus more susceptible to the tyranny of those who would use their powers corruptly, such as Saruman of old."

What utter codswallop!

"An admirable sentiment indeed," she remarked casually. "Of course, it would be more admirable if you didn't ignore it when it became inconvenient."

Gandalf frowned. "What do you mean by that?" he demanded, pulling them aside as another company of soldiers headed for the first level.

The Green Witch sniffed. "You know exactly what I mean, or have you forgotten that you utilised your powers whilst dragging poor Bilbo Baggins half way across the world? And you seem to have no objections to _others_ using magic to help you. Not that _I_ mind that - in fact, it's my absolute pleasure - but I think it's a bit rich of you to take the moral high ground when you are perfectly willing to let me and my wand do your dirty work for you."

Gandalf's face was thunderous. "Are you calling me a hypocrite?"

"Why, I suppose I am. What are you going to do about it, hmm? Use the magic you disapprove of so much against me?"

"Preposterous! I do _not_ disapprove of magic!"

"Really? Then perhaps your questionable morals are simply there to disguise the fact that your so-called 'magic' is not _quite_ up to scratch?"

"My _morals_ are unimpeachable. As is my magic. But it would hardly have been wise or beneficial to the West if I roamed the lands broadcasting my presence with spectacular bursts when the Dark Lord may have easily guessed both where I was, and what my intentions were!"

She indicated the overrun Pelennor with a wave of her hand. "I think it's fairly safe to say that the Dark Lord knows _exactly_ where you are now, and _exactly _what your intentions are. So there's no need to be shy any more, is there?"

"By Manwë's gleaming Halls!" exclaimed her snowy white opponent, taking a step closer and glaring into her face (which was now mere millimetres away). She held her ground. "Does _nothing _frighten you!"

His tobacco scented breath blowing this close to her face might do it. Why, one might think he was trying to embrace her!

"If you even _think_ about kissing me – and at a time like this - I'll blow your bits clean off you," she warned.

Naturally, Gandalf had been attempting no such thing (and well she knew it), but the mere suggestion that he was nurturing an uncontrollable passion for her was enough to make him spring back like a frightened rabbit, But then, suddenly, he chuckled.

"Nothing could be further from my mind, I assure you!" he declared with a shake of his head. "Ai Elbereth, if you are not the most exasperating woman I have ever met!"

Hmm. She was getting that a lot lately.

"Now look here, my good fellow," she began in a more conciliatory tone, "we can't spend the entire battle arguing with each other. It simply will not do to give the enemy the impression that there is a mutiny brewing within our ranks."

Her peer sighed. "You are indeed correct, Mrs Longbottom. Nothing shall give our foes more heart more quickly. As for my magic – well, yes: I do possess certain arts. And perhaps it would not be so very inappropriate to utilise what I may, but _only_ what I may. As a Maia, I have limits imposed upon me by the Valar themselves. It is not that I cannot perform certain feats; more so that I must not – even in this desperate time."

Although it was still the biggest pile of Doxy poo she had ever heard, Augusta knew this was not the time to enter into any further debate. Grabbing her companion by the arm, she marched across to the wall and indicated the wargs.

"I believe you know a handy little spell that will take care of those despicable creatures, or so Bilbo tells me," she said, as they gazed in disgust at the slavering beasts, who were still fighting over the corpse of the dead Gondorian soldier. Even Glorfindel's arrows weren't enough to deter them fully. "So, if you wouldn't mind doing the honours, I'll see what I can do about those infernal towers of theirs."

The White Wizard's forehead crumpled into a frown, then cleared. Bright grey eyes met bright blue ones. "Ah. Of course. How remiss of me not to think of it earlier. I shall take care of that from the first level if I may – it is wider, and thus the beasts shall be nearer. And if we are fortunate, it may take care of more than them! But what we really need is something a little more devastating; something that might afford us a little time to regroup our forces."

Hmm. Perhaps if she rethought her own spellwork?

Leaving her to contemplate her next move, Gandalf leapt onto his gleaming steed and sped away amidst another hail of crashing missiles. One plummeted into the barracks further up the second level and flames shot high into the air. Fortunately, the building had long been emptied of soldiers who were even now manning trebuchets or firing arrows at their enemies, but it was hardly a good idea to leave the building blazing when there was the danger of fire spreading. What if poor Mistress Mirwen's haberdashery was burnt to a crisp?

Having come to the same conclusion, her strapping nephew headed off in its direction with a dozen men, and soon they were lined up passing buckets of water with which to extinguish the fire. It left their former posts unmanned, however, and soon she was dashing up the debris-strewn road, wand waving madly as she enchanted enemy missiles into returning to their owners before they harmed any more of her comrades. The answering roar of dismay was only a small satisfaction. Gandalf was right: they needed something more debilitating; something that would keep the enemy at bay long enough for Minas Tirith to regroup.

They needed something _spectacular_.

Losing no more time, Augusta headed for the nearest embrasure. It was a little too narrow for the wandwork she had to do, but with a quick spell, the parapets on either side widened, giving her a splendid view of the field below.

Just as she was about to take aim, something caught her eyes. A sudden rush of bright blue flashes from beneath, and a volley of sparkling stones whizzed toward those enemies encircling the left side of the city - into the very same pack of wargs that had torn apart her former comrade. The hideous wolves yelped aloud in terror and fright, and were soon rolling on the blackened grass in an attempt to extinguish the coloured flames on their hides. In their desperation, they rolled straight onto their unlucky riders, squashing them to death.

More stones landed amidst riderless orcs and several trolls pulling a catapult; they burst into coloured sparks that shot up, setting fire to wood, hair and cloth alike. Though orcs and trolls squealed and roared as they flapped about in their attempts to extinguish them, somehow the flames seemed to spread like mischievous multi-coloured fairies, finding new victims to attack wherever they danced. The catapult blazed out of control.

Well! Who would have thought old Mr White had it in him, eh?

So distracted was the elderly matriarch by Gandalf's magic, that she didn't see the whizzing arrow until it was too late. It flew so close that it scratched her cheek before thudding into a door some distance behind her. She jumped back reflexively, fingering her wet skin in shock. When she pulled them back and saw the blood on them …

Rage built like a wild thing within her.

So, those scandalous misfits thought they could shoot _her_ did they? Kill _her_? Snuff out her life when she was _this close_ to finally cornering her scallywag of a grandson and giving him a well-deserved piece of her mind?

_Well, she would show them!_

Tapping her throat with her wand, she turned back to the wall in a fury.

"SO, YOU SHOCKING REPROBATES! YOU UNPARDONABLE GRANNY-BASHERS! YOU THINK IT'S PERFECTLY ACCEPTABLE TO SHOOT AT A DEFENCELESS OLD LADY, DO YOU? WELL, THE GLOVES ARE OFF NOW, BOYS, SO YOU'D _BETTER START RUNNING!_"

Bypassing the planned spectacular in favour of the unplanned devastating, she took aim at one of fire-rivers. Augusta then waved her wand in a complicated pattern and cried, '_Flammostis __perdere!' _

A bellow of fright issued from the forward ranks as the river of flame they were carefully tending inexplicably shot twenty feet into the air. It began to twist wildly, rotating and spinning like a fiery mini-tornado. Orc, man and beast sped away from it only to fall into the next fiery lake. The fire devil shot across the breadth of the Pelennor, frying everything in its path before shooting up the field. Whenever it met another flaming river, it absorbed it, growing in height, width and ferocity, until it was a spinning, flaming monster that tore through enemy ranks again and again. The once orderly rows became a chaotic mass of beasts, trolls, orcs and men as everyone fell over each other trying to flee back up the field. But with so many bodies present, it was simply impossible, and soon the western end was choked with roaring, flailing adversaries.

Every eye in the city was drawn to the fiery tornado, which roared and crackled and spat as it sped towards the unfortunate crowd. Even farther up the Pelennor, all activity stopped, and all siege towers lay temporarily redundant as the gaze of friend and foe alike was magnetically drawn to the deadly phenomenon in morbid fascination, knowing they were about to witness carnage, but helpless to look away ...

The super-hot tornado ploughed into the mass of heaving bodies like a starving Crup, and the sheer force of it threw squealing, flaming enemies high into the air. One huge troll was lifted bodily of its feet and swirled around and around at a dizzying speed before being thrown onto a catapult, shattering it beneath its weight and setting the ruins ablaze as if they were no more than kindling. On and on the fire devil continued, relentlessly cutting a swath of devastation through the forward ranks of Mordor's ugly, filthy army, forcing Sauron's forces further up the Pelennor in their haste to avoid it.

"AND DON'T COME BACK, YOU SMELLY SCOUNDRELS, OR I'LL BE INTRODUCING YOU TO MY GOOD FRIENDS - SOAP AND WATER!"

Because she knew how much they would love_ that _...

A massive cheer rose up from within the city walls, and all around the grim-faced granny soldiers abandoned their posts to hug each other in delight before rushing her way.

"All hail the Green Witch, Mighty Guardian of Gondor!" cried one burly guard who swept her onto his shoulders and marched up the second level, parading her about as if she were a brand new Firebolt.

"Praise her! Praise the Green Witch, Scourge of Sauron and his allies!"

"I prefer 'Scourge of Idiots Everywhere' myself," she corrected, for once not objecting to being manhandled (she had a better view of the Pelennor from this height). The crowd around her grew as men swarmed from everywhere, keen to get a glimpse of her. They passed through the Second Gate onto the third level, and only when the jostling became so great that someone's hand inadvertently landed on her aged posterior did Augusta finally demand (very loudly) to be let down.

"I'm thrilled that you're happy, chaps, but it really wouldn't do to leave your posts for too long. That firestorm should burn out in another ten minutes and heaven knows how quickly it will take that crispy lot to regroup afterwards. Now, back to your posts the lot of you!"

With a final shout of 'Eru bless you, lady!' the soldiers reluctantly dispersed, giving Augusta a perfect view of her wildly exuberant foster nephew elbowing his way through the remnant crowd.

"Aunt! That was … that was … the most _extraordinary_ sight ..." he began. His voice faltered when he caught sight of the gash on her left check, and his shining face clouded with alarm as her rushed towards her. "You are wounded!"

She sighed in fond exasperation. "You have rather an alarming habit of fussing over nothing, Archie. Has anyone ever told you that?"

Coming to a halt before her, he cupped her chin and stared at the oozing laceration in dismay. "And you have an equally alarming habit of casually dismissing your own well-being," he replied gravely, grabbing his beautiful golden cloak and wiping away her blood with the inside edge of it.

"Nonsense! I just don't see the need to fuss over something so minor," she said, healing the cut with a wave of her wand. "Haven't you ever heard of a stiff upper lip?"

Grey eyes fell to her top lip. "You have been wounded there also?"

"Oh, Archie!" she chuckled, batting his hand away when he tried to inspect it. "It's just a saying. It means to soldier on in the face of adversity."

"Something you excel at," he remarked, smiling once more.

"Well it's not a trait exclusive to me. Just look at all these marvellous chaps around us, getting on with the job at hand despite the odds stacked against them. Why, they remind me of the Rohirrim!"

And what splendid fellows _they_ all were!

Glorfindel grinned. "High praise indeed, Aunt," he said, steering her up the winding road. "I know how fond you are of the sturdy men of Rohan."

She gave him a sidelong glance, and saw that he was suppressing a laugh. "No need to make it sound quite so sordid, you cheeky young whippersnapper. Or perhaps I should call you a dirty old man instead?" He looked to her questioningly. "Oh, yes. It has recently come to my attention that I'm not quite where I thought I was – or even _when _I thought I was. Thank you for informing me earlier."

Her tone was more wry than accusatory, but her pretty companion stopped her nonetheless.

"Forgive me," he said, his eyes tinged with sincere regret. "I feared that the shock might prove too much for you given your ..."

He had been about to say 'advanced years' (and they both knew it) but trailed off, embarrassed. Augusta snorted.

"Thank you, Archie. There's nothing quite like a dash of brutal honesty to make a lady feel good about herself," she drawled. "And it's a bit rich of you to worry about my ageing ticker given that you're probably older than sin itself. Why, next to you, I'm a spring chicken! So if anyone should be worried about anyone falling into senility, it should be me worrying about you! In fact, all this excitement has probably tired you out. You ought to sit down and catch your breath before your heart explodes. Or perhaps take an afternoon nap? If it _is_ the afternoon – it's a bit hard to tell through this permanent darkness. Either way, I'd be happy to conjure a glass for you to put your teeth into while you rest."

Glorfindel's jaw dropped, but he recovered quickly and chuckled. "Elves do not tire easily, Aunt! And be assured that my teeth are still my own. Nor is there any danger of my heart exploding. We elves are immortal."

He grinned at her so assuredly that she rolled her eyes.

"So nothing can kill you?"

"Well, yes. Serious injury can fell even the Eldar ..." explained the fair elf, but was interrupted.

"And elves can't be struck down by sorrow?"

"Some have been known to fade with grief ..."

"Well, then. You're not immortal at all, are you? You'll simply live for a shockingly long time, as long as you avoid sharp objects and bouts of extreme depression. So you can stop being so smug, old boy!"

"'Old boy'?" stuttered her companion.

"Yes: _old _boy," sniffed Augusta, trying hard to keep her lips from quivering in amusement. "Immortality is all very fine and well, but what the blazes could you possibly find to do with so much time on your hands? There are only so many times fire can be discovered. Or the wheel invented. After the fifth or sixth time around, surely it becomes monotonous?"

"We do not spend our time continuously reinventing the wheel!" he exclaimed in mock outrage.

"Say what you like. I, for one, am simply astounded that more of you don't die from sheer boredom. Grandfather."

"_Grandfather_ ..?" Glorfindel threw back his golden head and laughed aloud, and the silvery sound of it brought cheer to all they passed.

**XXX**

Despite all her protestations that she was perfectly well, thank you very much, Augusta's honorary nephew (grandfather) did not miss her stifled yawns and marched her all the way up to their sixth level residence, insisting that she rest for an hour or two while the lull in battle continued.

"There may not be another opportunity as golden as this," he warned, leaving her in the hands of a (for once) very subdued Mistress Írildë.

"How can I possibly leave when everyone else is still manning their stations?" she demanded in outrage.

"Because – due in no small part to your commendable efforts – the Enemy shall be too busy assessing the damages to their defences before they can even think of regrouping. Now, do as I bid, Aunt. The good mistress will see you settled while I aid with the clean up and redistribution of forces on the lower levels. I shall fly back to your side as soon as you are needed. But I warn you – do not leave this house without me. And do not, under any circumstances, leave the city!"

Without further discussion, he was gone in a swirl of golden cloak and tunic, leaving her to gape at his back. For a moment, she considered Disapparating back to the lower levels herself and offering her aid, but she was overcome by another huge yawn, and gave the idea up as a bad lot.

Seeing her fatigue, and happy at the opportunity to do something other than cower in the rear rooms, Írildë gently took her by the arm and propelled her not upstairs, but into the study.

"Come, good lady. Witch or nay, you are clearly overcome with fatigue. Alas, it is too dangerous for any to dare the upper levels – even this high up we are not immune to the effects of a well-aimed missile. You must rest instead upon the settle in Lord Herion's study. It is broad and comfortable; you might rest very well there. I shall see to it that you are brought a pillow and some coverlets as soon as possible."

Augusta frowned, unhappy at the thought of the housekeeper risking her life simply to make sure she slept well. "Won't that mean climbing the stairs?"

"Nay, lady. Such supplies are stored near the laundress's quarters."

Within moments, Augusta was ensconced on the plush red settle by the window, drapes drawn, and drifting off to the land of nod for a short forty winks.

It seemed mere seconds later that she was alerted by rushing footfalls and a loud banging outside the study. A high voice, not her nephew's, was calling her name and she could hear Írildë's answering directions. Both voices drew closer and, alarmed, Augusta rubbed the sleep from her eyes and sprang from her resting place. At that moment, the study door swung open. In rushed none other than the little hobbit fellow she had seen upon her release, looking absolutely frantic. What _was _his name again?

"Mrs Longbottom! Mrs Longbottom! You must help me!"

Apples … apples … Ah, yes! Pippin!

"What is it, young man? What's all this fuss about?" she said, not unkindly. "Have those idiots outside started up again?"

It was a redundant question given that, now she was alert, she could hear the dull _thump-thump-booms! o_f drums once again. How long had she been asleep? And where was Archie? He said he'd come and fetch her if she was needed!

"What? No. I mean _yes_," said the hobbit, looking desperate. "I was looking for Gandalf, but he's all the way down in the first level trying to keep the Enemy from battering down the Gate. Then I heard that you had been brought here an hour ago, and so I came here instead."

An hour? If she'd only been asleep for an hour, then the forces of Mordor hadn't wasted much time clearing away the mess she'd made of their comrades. If they _had _bothered clearing them away: she wouldn't be surprised if the remaining host had just stepped over the smoking corpses and started reassembling their endless ranks to plug any gaps made by their deaths.

Barbarians!

And now they were trying to break down the main gate into the city. Well, Gandalf would more than likely need some reinforcements!

Grabbing her coat, she quickly put it on and patted the pocket to ensure her wand was still there. It was. Ready to leap to Gandalf's aid, she made for the door, but Pippin moved into her path, blocking her way.

"Wait, Mrs Longbottom. I wasn't looking for Gandalf because the Enemy's knocking at the door - even though they are, in a manner of speaking. Besides, Gandalf already knows they are there. I was looking for him because my lord Steward has dismissed me from his service."

"Well, that's hardly surprising. The poor man's just lost his last surviving son, and probably his marbles too. I don't imagine he'll want to see anyone right now," she said a little impatiently.

"I am afraid, Mrs Longbottom. Afraid that something terrible will happen. The Lord is out of his mind, I think."

Just as she suspected, though she could take no satisfaction in being right this time.

"I'm very sorry to hear it," she said honestly, before sidestepping him. But Pippin surprised her by springing backwards and blocking her way again.

"You don't understand! I am afraid he will kill himself, and Faramir too. Can't you do something?"

That stopped her cold. "What do you mean 'Faramir too'? I thought the poor fellow had already died?"

Pippin shook his head frantically, almost in tears. "No! He is _not_ dead, and I have told Denethor this but he does not believe me! He is so mad with grief that he intends to burn both himself and Faramir alive!"

Horror warred with shock, and for a moment Augusta could hardly process what she had heard. Would Denethor _really_ go that far? Would he actually burn his least-favoured son to death, and himself along with him?

"Mrs Longbottom, _please_! We must make haste or we shall be too late."

For a moment, she hesitated. A brief moment while she debated whether she should rush to the aid of one dying man, or Disapparate instantly to the lower levels and help Gandalf protect the main city gates, and thus protect many. The greater, or the few? But the moment was soon over. Deciding that Gandalf was big enough to fight his own battles alone (for a few moments anyway), she gestured towards the doorway with a wrinkly hand.

"You'd better lead on then, young man. And you can fill me in on the details as we go, because if what you're saying is true, then we don't have a moment to waste hanging about here!"

And so they raced out of the house together, desperate to save the Steward and his son. Little did they suspect what lay in store for them ...

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Author's Note_: Some dialogue and text taken from The Lord of the Rings, The Return of the King, Book Five, Chapter 4: _The Siege of Gondor_.

The action in this chapter is, for me, a little constrictive, possibly because it's a siege and not the direct face-to-face combat of the battlefield. Anyway, I'll do another proofing of it tomorrow, when my eyes are fresher. Don't want another repeat of the 'Chapter 29' incident ...

*wink*

Kara's Aunty ;)


	44. Omne trium imperfectum

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. and Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

**Credit: **en-wikia, hp & lotr wikias, Tolkien Gateway, EoA, HoME v5 The Etymologies, wordreference dot com, Google Translate.

**Chapter 44**

* * *

_Mount Taniquetil, Undying Lands_

_Third Age 13th March 3019_

After hours of history, geography and instruction, the plans were made, the two wizards recently arrived to Middle-earth from the Void reunited with wands and Time-Turner, and the Valar who had hailed them faced their newest guests across the wide table, imparting final words of wisdom as they accepted a weighty pack of supplies and two bedrolls brought by a maidservant.

While Fred rifled curiously through it, Dumbledore sat with folded hands, quietly absorbing every word and warning uttered. Now and again he posed a question, or nodded in understanding, but otherwise he remained silent, patiently waiting for them to conclude their speeches.

"No gifts have we to offer ye both that may help ye in this task, other than these meagre supplies," said the male Vala, Manwë (pointing at the _huge_ pack Fred was still up to his elbows in). "It is thine alone to accomplish using those arts inherent to the Wizards of thy time. But be warned: though life anew has been granted ye, it is still but a mortal one of thy kind. Ye shall be as susceptible to death now as ye were before, and there are many dangers which may steal the life ye have so recently begun anew. Not only those we have discussed at length thus far, such as Mordor, but also others ye must avoid at all costs. Dol Guldur, Harad, Cirith Ungol, the Pass of Déafyrhte. Some of these thy travels may take ye either to or near, some not. Yet wherever ye go, tread with caution, we entreat ye."

Dumbledore was neither worried nor afraid of the prospect of death, though it would be a nuisance to succumb to it again so soon when there was a task yet to accomplish. Besides, from what he'd understood so far, even immortals of this world were not wholly immune to it.

"Dying's not so bad," said Fred stoutly, emerging from the pack with a what appeared to be a wafer of the same lembas bread thay had enjoyed earlier. "Not that I'm planning to do it again any time soon, mind you. Not before I've fathered at least a hundred children first. All named George ..."

His face clouded for a moment, and he took a bite of his lembas. Reading the pain in his eyes, the older wizard sought to distract him.

"One hundred children?" he asked with a lift of his silvery eyebrows. "Let's hope you find a lady robust enough for the task."

Varda smiled.

"And enough derivatives of your brother's name to cover them all," continued Dumbledore cheerfully. "There is, naturally, 'George' itself. And Georgie. Giorgio, Georg, Georgius, György, Chorche – which, incidentally, is the Aragonese version, and is fitting given that 'Aragonese' sounds very much like 'Aragorn'. We also have Seoirse, Seòrsa, and Sior, which are Irish, Scots and Welsh respectively. And then there are Jorge, Juraj and Jerzy – that last one I like simply because it reminds me of a very light jumper."

Fred, successfully diverted, grinned after swallowing a mouthful of bread. "That's thirteen boys taken care of, but if the other eighty-seven are girls I'm in serious trouble."

"Not at all," smiled the venerable headmaster. "You are forgetting that 'Georgie' is a unisex name. There is also Georgina. And Georgette, Georgia, Georgiana, Georganna, Gina, Giorgetta, Jorja, Gigi, Györgyi, and my personal favourite, Flubbalubbalubba, which is Squiddish for Georgella. As a matter of fact, Flubbalubbalubba is Squiddish for absolutely _everything_, but no one else need ever know."

He winked at Fred conspiratorially, and the Weasley teen laughed. Pleased that his young companion was now in better spirits, Dumbledore returned his attention to the matter at hand.

"As Fred has already mentioned, it would not be the worst scenario, to die again, though let us hope we can avoid it until long after your war is won! If we can't, well, let's deal with that when we must –_ if _we must. For the moment, I think it's best to concentrate on the task at hand: saving Neville, and with him the Light of Varda. So, if you have no further instructions, or advice, I think it's time we made haste."

"Nothing more, other than to wish ye both safe passage, and say that ye shall oft be in my thoughts," said Varda.

Manwë bobbed his regal head in agreement. "As ye shall also be in mine." All four rose from the ivory table. "Yet ere ye leave, allow me to bestow one gift upon ye."

As with Molly weeks before, he circled the table and laid a hand on Dumbledore's shoulder. Closing his eyes briefly, Manwë spoke a few soft words.

"Not that we're not grateful, sir," commented Fred, as the Vala repeated the procedure with him, "but I thought you said you didn't have any gifts to give us."

"None that would aid ye in the task directly. This will but increase the power of one spell. Thine own mother magicked both herself and the Chosen One instantly to the Grey Havens, but such is the distance that it would not have been possible without my intervention. As ye both intend to travel to Isengard itself – which is significantly farther - it is necessary for ye both to receive this gift, lest one arrive at his destination and the other find himself paying a most unexpected visit to my great friend and ally, Ulmo."

Fred shoulders shrugged beneath his dragon-hide coat. "Sounds inconvenient, but not bad."

Both Valar smiled.

"Ulmo is the King of the Sea, child," explained Varda with a beatific smile on her pale face. "He has no abode on land. To visit his halls would be to plunge beneath the waves themselves, the only bed available thereafter that of the sea itself. In short, thou wouldst drown."

A sheepish grin spread its way across Fred's freckled face. "Oh. In that case, send my regards to your friend and tell him I hope he doesn't mind if we don't stop by for tea."

A expression of great amusement spread across the Valar's faces.

Pointing his wand at the table, Dumbledore shrank both the pack and bedrolls they were now supplied with, Summoned them, and stuck all three items in his pocket. Crooking his arm, he beckoned for Fred to grab it. "Let's Disapparate together, shall we? I'd hate to lose you so soon after being reunited."

"You mean reanimated. Or rejuvenated. Or restarted," grinned the Weasley twin, striding boldly forward. He drew to a sudden halt, his expression thoughtful.

Dumbledore waited expectantly, watching as the young man twisted on his heel and faced his hosts with a disarming smile. Then:

"Gandalf's White, yeah?"

Manwe and Varda (looking startled), simply stared at him, which was all the encouragement Fred needed.

"He used to be Grey, but you said he's White now. Saruman used to be White, but now he's just useless. You mentioned a Radagast being Brown, and two Blue Wizards."

Having a strange feeling he knew where the young man was going with this, Fred's former headmaster smothered a chuckle.

"What about us? Any objections to us giving ourselves colours? I mean, if it's a sacred thing reserved for wizards from your world only, then that's okay. It would just be cool to be known as 'Fred the Red'." Fred waggled his eyebrows.

Varda laughed, a beautiful tinkling sound that made everyone sigh dreamily. "Thou art perceptive," she said, moments later. "'Tis indeed reserved only for Wizards of this world. A rank, of sorts. But ye are both now 'of this world' and so ye aught to have that same honour. Fortunately, thy chosen colour, son of Weasley, is most appropriate, for it is the colour of strength, courage, passion and love, among other things. Fortunate also because the sound of it combined with thy name is a poetry that warms my heart. Fred the Red it shall be from henceforth!"

Ever the charmer, Fred winked at her, and she laughed again.

"What about you, Professor?" he said, eyeing the older wizard's robe speculatively. The stars and moons glimmered and spun wildly against the background colour. "How about Dumbledore the Deep Purple?".

This suggestion elicited more ripples of amusement.

"'Tis another sound suggestion, son of Weasley," said Manwë in approval. "Purple denotes power, wisdom and magic."

"I see I am outnumbered. Dumbledore the Deep Purple it is, then. Now, Fred the Red, if you are quite finished, we have an appointment to keep."

With that, the party exchanged their final farewells and best wishes.

"Pray take care when ye arrive at thy destination. Saruman may be defrocked of his power, but not of his cunning. 'Twould not do to have brought ye so far for such a task only to lose ye at the first challenge!" said Varda.

Blue eyes twinkled at her from across half-moon spectacles. "Rest assured, my dear lady, that we have no intention of joining the ranks of the dearly departed again quite _so_ soon. I shall take every precaution to ensure that my young friend and I both emerge unscathed from Isengard, and wherever we go after that. But before we leave, allow me to sincerely thank you on behalf of both Fred and myself, for this unexpected opportunity to discover your world. I cannot tell you how delighted we are by such a wonderful prospect."

"The thanks ye have offered are owed entirely to others," smiled Manwë. "Yet we shall accept it on their behalf until such time as ye may see them again."

"And we shall make sure they know just how grateful we are," responded Dumbledore, and Fred nodded fervently beside him. Crooking a purple-clad arm, the teenager's firm grip upon it announced his readiness to depart. With a final nod at their gracious benefactors, Dumbledore turned lightly on the spot and both wizards disappeared with a soft _pop_.

**XXX**

_Isengard_

_Third Age 13th -10th March 3019_

Manwë's aid was helpful indeed: what would have been a tiring journey of months by sea and road, or even hours by Apparition (even if they had mapped out key locations to Apparate to along the way) took mere seconds. One moment they were in the Valar's bright, beautiful, glorious Halls of Reception, and the next atop the soaring Tower of Orthanc itself.

"Handy, that little trick, eh?" said Fred, looking up at the four peaks rising above the platform, then down at the carnage of Isengard beneath. He blinked in astonishment at the tiny figures of trees, strolling across the ruined courtyard towards the outer wall. Some were already there, tearing it down brick by brick.

"Er, Professor, have you seen these walking trees. Walking trees! I'll bet Neville had a field day with them. Or should that be a forest day?"

Laughing, he turned to get Dumbledore's opinion, but his fellow returnee was too busy pacing the flat surface, looking for something. Suddenly he straightened.

"Ah. Here we have it!"

Looking very pleased with himself, Dumbledore waved his wand, and the floor seemed to drop out a yard or two before him.

"Come, Fred. We can admire the view later. For the moment, we have a job to do."

Pulling out the Time-Turner, he beckoned Fred over and circled both their necks with the chain; holding the device between them, he turned the tiny, sparkling hour-glass many times. There was a blur of dark and light, and a sensation of speeding backwards very fast, then the world came into focus once more. Both men were still atop the Tower, but where it had been drizzling with rain before, there was now bright morning sunshine.

"Three days," said Dumbledore in response to Fred's unasked question. "It's the farthest we can go back at any given time with such a small Time-Turner. If it turns out to be insufficient, we can go back another day or two, but we must wait at least an hour before attempting that."

"Why?"

Removing the Time-Turner from their necks, Dumbledore pocketed it. "I have absolutely no idea," he said cheerfully. "Possibly to allow the device to fully calibrate itself to its new environment, or perhaps because it lacks the power of a larger one. Either way, we shall never know because the person who invented it will not be born for several millennia. Shall we go?"

Without waiting for his young friend's response, Dumbledore waved his wand at the point he had found the trapdoor three days since and it swung downwards. Stepping down onto the stairs beneath, he began his descent into the Tower's obsidian innards. Torches hung in brackets at regular intervals, illuminating the seemingly never-ending spiral into the Tower proper. Footsteps behind him attested to Fred's presence.

"Maybe we should Disillusion ourselves, Professor," whispered Fred, a minute into their descent.

"That would be very impolite. If we are entering someone else's house uninvited, the least we should do is introduce ourselves if he stumbles upon us." He could feel the boy's frown on his back. Smiling, he added, "Don't worry, Fred. I think I am well up to the challenge of an ex-wizard, should things go awry."

"Ex-wizard." Fred sniggered. "How daft would you have to be to let that happen to you?"

"I think the question is more, 'How _foolish_ would you have to be?' And we have already learned just how foolish he is."

"I'd give my left arm to have seen his face when Mum and Neville's gran got their hands on him. Probably thought they were no threat to him, daft git."

Dumbledore chuckled softly as he recalled some of the images they had seen in the Window of Arda. "I imagine it's a lesson he won't soon forget."

"Where do you think the plants are, exactly?" asked Fred, sobering up. His voice remained low, cautious.

"I haven't the faintest idea. We'll simply have to check each room we find in the hope we stumble across them. If that fails, then we may have to appeal to our host to take us to them, though I would prefer to avoid that unpleasant scenario."

A snort sounded behind him as they traipsed further down the stairwell. "I wouldn't. I'd have no problems hexing him stupid after he tried to hurt my mum. But what do you think Neville did to him that made Saruman angry enough to target him in particular? Surely Mum and Mrs Longbottom would be more likely targets after what he suffered at their hands?"

"There is your answer right there. By targeting Neville, he will hurt them both. Molly would be devastated if anything happened to him when she was charged to protect him – especially after your loss – and Augusta … Well, she has already lost her only child, in spirit if not body. If the last hope for her line dies, she will be inconsolable."

There was a moment's silence while his younger companion digested this. "Then Saruman doesn't know who he's dealing with. If his plan was successful, then they wouldn't rest until they wiped him off the face of the planet," Fred said grimly.

"I think he might realise that," contested the former headmaster, "but I suspect he is placing far too much faith in the protection his Dark allies might afford him."

"More fool him, then. 'Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned'."

Surprised, Dumbledore paused to look over his shoulder. Fred grinned at him.

"Potterwatch once broadcast from a Muggle library – they have a lot of books. I might have borrowed one or two out of curiosity, to read in between broadcasts. Course, they'll be well overdue now. Did you know Muggles charge a fee if you bring back books late? I wonder if they accept Galleons."

"_Galleons_? How late are the books, exactly?"

Fred shrugged carelessly. "'About eight months."

Shaking his head in amusement, Dumbledore resumed his descent, with Fred right behind him. For over ten minutes they journeyed farther down into the tower in silence, wands in hand, eyes peeled for any unexpected company, and not once did they pass a landing that might indicate a level of rooms.

Thinking it was a very great waste of space, they followed the steep stairs down for a while longer until, finally, they struck gold. The left wall suddenly diverged left again while the right continued down the stairwell.

Pulling up to the edge, Dumbledore held out a warning hand to Fred, and both gripped their wands tightly, ready to spring into action if necessary.

Cautiously, Dumbledore peeped around the corner of the wall. Before him was an onyx hallway, dimly lit, with a marble landing; statues flanked the length of it and several doorways led off to either side.

There was no one in sight.

Pleased, he turned and nodded to Fred, and both made their way slowly down the hall. Fred half-turned as he walked, keeping his wand trained at the stairwell, ready to pick off anyone that snuck up behind them.

Pausing at the first door to their left, Dumbledore bade him wait outside for him before turning the handle. But the door was locked. One simple wordless spell later, and the locks on every door were disabled. He entered the first room, his eyes adjusting to the bright light spilling in from a tall window on the far wall. It was rather spartan, with only a chair facing the window, and a desk with an empty pitcher and glass off to the side.

An observatory of sorts? An office?

For a few minutes he looked around, then checked for any other doorways or concealed spaces, but his search yielded nothing. Exiting the room, he tried the next – a small bedroom - and the next, but there was as little to find in any of them as there was in the first.

"Anything?" enquired Fred, upon his departure from the final chamber.

"Nothing but empty rooms," replied Dumbledore, ushering him back towards the stairwell, where they began their descent to the next level.

"Why does that not surprise me? I expect all his 'guests' are more likely to occupy the dungeon levels anyway."

Or the tower platform, if they were Augusta Longbottom.

For a full half hour they repeated the same ritual on every level: Fred kept watch, Dumbledore checked rooms, on finding nothing of note both descended to the next level. Halfway down the tower, Fred posed an obvious question.

"Where d'you think everyone is? In a place this big, there should be dozens of people floating about. We should have ran into someone by now."

"No doubt we would have, if Saruman hadn't sent his entire army off to war with Rohan. Something you would know if you had paid less attention to Varda's pretty maid and more attention to the Window of Arda," chided Dumbledore gently.

Fred flushed guiltily. "I didn't miss that much – I was only distracted for a moment. Besides, she said she was married. Either that, or she was a very good liar."

"If she said she was married, then I'm certain she was. How could she have resisted your charms otherwise?"

"True, true," replied the teenager not-so-modestly.

At that moment, they reached another level. Peering around the corner, Dumbledore found it was as equally empty as the previous ones. The duo stepped onto the marble landing and started checking rooms once more. Again nothing – until they reached the third door down the landing. It was hidden from sight by a tall statue, which the pair skirted around. Having already charmed the locks on the door, Dumbledore stepped inside.

"Fred," he said, staring at the sight before him. Footsteps heralded the teenager's arrival.

"Finally!" exclaimed the Weasley twin, closing the door behind him. Both stepped forward, their eyes on the long trough situated between two tall windows ahead. From within the trough's depths sprouted tiny golden stalks, barely out of their shells, and from them deep red fronds tipped with gold.

"Gryffindor colours," muttered Fred, strangely fascinated by the plant. He drew closer, intending to get a better look, and sighed in delight.

They were so small. So delicate. So pretty! He had to touch them. Nothing else mattered. They were Gryffindor colours! It was a sign, surely?

Oblivious to the fact that he was in danger, Fred reached out towards the infant plants. Dumbledore too, was not unaffected. But – unlike Fred – he was quicker off the mark. Seeing the glazed look on his young companion's face, he struggled against the strange fugue enveloping him and aimed his wand at the trough.

"_Decrementi!"_

Instantly the stalks began to wilt, and the fronds curled up into themselves, blackening from their golden tips downwards. Within seconds, the glorious display was little more than a rotting pile of mulch, emitting a noxious smell than soon banished any lingering effects they had once held over the pair.

"How curious," muttered the erstwhile headmaster, peering at the now mouldy vegetation.

"Curious?" coughed Fred, banishing the stench with one of his mother's handy household spells. "They're not even fully grown yet – or they weren't. Anyway, I thought they were only supposed to affect Neville?"

Dumbledore's forehead crinkled in thought. "And so they were. Possibly Augusta as well, to an extent. I wonder, though. Not me, certainly. Therefore …" He looked up suddenly, and his expression cleared. "Ah! Of course. It's the only possible explanation. How wonderful!"

Sensing Fred's confusion, he elaborated somewhat.

"Immature or not, with so many plants in one place, their allure was bound to be more enticing, even to us."

"How's that wonderful, exactly? I thought it was only supposed to be the seeds that were dangerous anyway. These things had already started sprouting." He jerked a thumb at the offending pile of shrivelled plants.

"The seeds, once dropped, sink into the soil and sprout rapidly, I imagine; and the seeds these plants grew from are already under soil." He indicated the trough with a nod of his silver head. "As these are already partially grown, I presume they are not the intended end product. Perhaps the next generation or two? No more than that, surely, if Saruman wanted to put his plans into action."

An alarming prospect given how effective the current generation turned out to be, mused the old wizard as he silently paced the length of the trough, gazing at the ruined plants. How much more potent would their offspring have been, had he not destroyed them?

Fred sauntered over to one of the windows and looked down at the massive courtyard below.

"Walking trees, eh? Bet Neville had a ball when he saw them. Wonder if he asked them for an autograph?" He chortled aloud. "You know, Professor, he's doing all right, Neville is. I always knew he had guts. Oh, maybe not in the same flashy way as Harry, or me and George -" more chortles "- but slow and steady wins the day. Wish I'd seen him hack that snake's head off. I'll bet Voldemort was livid."

"You weren't watching the final battle?" enquired Dumbledore, eyebrows lifted in surprise.

"Not all of it," came the reply. "I was still getting used to being dead. I caught the end, though, when Mum killed Bellatrix Lestrange, and Harry offed Voldemort. Can't tell you how good that made me feel. Imagine my mum finishing off that barking bit... er, nutter! She was brilliant! Absolutely brilliant. Not that I doubted she could do it – I grew up with her, didn't I? I just didn't think she'd do it so _efficiently_. And now she's here, in Middle Earth with Neville Longbottom, and they're both ripping up a storm against another Dark Lord. Bit of luck for us considering we're only back because of them. Not that we're doing too badly, either. We've already accomplished what we came here to do. Might as well sit down and have a cuppa while Mum, Neville, and Mrs Longbottom help the Peoples of the West finish off the rest of Sauron's army, eh?"

"I think not."

The deep voice caught both men by surprise and, spinning around, Dumbledore and Fred raised their wands defensively as two men entered the now open door. One was short, pale, with lanky dark hair and one arm in a sling; the other was a rainbow of garish colours; green skin, orange beard. He was covered in a voluminous white cloak, and from his yellow hair sprouted two ragged bits of broken horn.

"Saruman, I presume," guessed Dumbledore. Pocketing his wand, he walked forward, smiling pleasantly. Behind him, Fred was moving quickly, his own wand still trained on the unexpected arrivals.

"Who are you," demanded Saruman coolly.

"Forgive me, how rude of me not to introduce myself. I am Dumbledore ..."

"The Deep Purple," interjected Fred, glowering at Saruman darkly.

"And this is Fred ..."

"The Red," added the teenager, still scowling at the man who had ordered the kidnap of his mother. Sort of.

The ex-wizard froze. "Dumbledore … Not _Darth_ Dumbledore? Dark Lord of the starship Enterprise?"

Two sets of eyebrows shot up in surprise, and the reborn wizards swapped a look of confusion.

"I am afraid you have mistaken me for someone else," said Dumbledore, making a mental note to have a very long conversation with Neville, if he ever saw him again. "I am _Albus_ Dumbledore, and I am neither Dark, nor do I have a starship. Unfortunately."

Saruman frowned in disbelief. "That cannot be. 'Dumbledore' is not a common name."

"Thank you. However, I must disagree. I have known many Dumbledores in the course of my life ..."

All _related_ to him.

"... so it is quite possible that you are referring to one of them." Dumbledore smiled innocently at Saruman, who scowled. Clearing his throat, he spoke again. "We are friends of your Valar. You do remember them, don't you?"

The green man grimaced in disgust.

"I see that you do. You'll forgive me if I was sceptical for a moment. You did disobey their direct orders to aid the innocents of this world in their fight against a common enemy, after all, so it's easy to understand why I might have been confused."

A frown crossed the other man's pea-green face, and then he sneered. "The Valar! What blinkered fools they are. They do not understand the meaning of true power, as I do." His face cleared, taking on a more sedate expression. "But now I am the one being rude! I ought to have offered you refreshments. 'Tis not often I have such distinguished guests – come all the way from Valinor itself, I suspect."

He watched them carefully, and smiled when Dumbledore confirmed his guess with a nod. "There seem to be many newcomers in these parts of late," he continued, "all of whom claim to be wizards or witches. Yet I have never seen the likes of their magic before. Perhaps you could explain this?"

"I could, technically speaking," agreed Dumbledore affably. "But I won't. I prefer to keep my cards close to my chest in these difficult times. I'm sure you understand."

Saruman's smile slipped at the snub. Clenching his jaw, he looked past the wizened headmaster to the trough at his back.

"I see you have both been busy." Narrowed eyes flickering back to Dumbledore.

"What excellent eyesight you have! Yes we have 'been busy'. As have you, I might add. Plotting against a boy to ruin his loved ones? I am disappointed. For a former wizard of your calibre, it seems such a petty act, one that smacks of desperation. Do you hate the ladies who love him so much?"

Saruman's expression became stony, though it soon passed. Then his features grew saddened, and his voice dipped in regret. "Hate? You are mistaken. Hatred is an emotion completely foreign to me. I am merely saddened that the ladies you speak of so disapprove of me. I am not an unreasonable man, nor a violent one. I have only ever endeavoured to help, my sole occupation to unite all peoples of this world, that we may live together in harmony."

Fred bristled. "Harmony? Since when did domination pass as 'harmony'. You sound just like every other Dark Lord I've ever known."

Which came to a grand total of one.

"Alas!" said Saruman, shaking his green-and-yellow head. "You believe the rumours and lies spread by that poor, misinformed boy-wizard! But you are not the only ones. Before Longbottom appeared, I was held in high regard by my Rohirrim neighbours - counted among the wisest in all Middle-earth. But now, due to a small misunderstanding - the most minor of mistakes - I have been cast as the villain so effectively that my enemies throw down my home around me and I am now robbed of my powers completely."

"Misunderstandings can be a terrible thing, it's true," agreed Dumbledore conversationally. "I once mistook a love potion for a sleeping draught and spent the next three days professing my undying devotion to a very frightened old spinster from Bath."

His host blinked stupidly, but the smaller man perked up at the mention of a love potion. He crept forward, trying to speak, though no sound came from his mouth. Saruman threw him a scathing glance and yanked him back.

"My … advisor, Wormtongue, would no doubt be fascinated to hear more of such potions. Unfortunately, the lady he admires cannot bear the sight of him. Indeed, he has little luck with any lady of any age. The boy's matronly Guardian found him so distasteful that she robbed him of his voice."

At this lie, Wormtongue glared hatefully at his companion; Dumbledore, sensing an opportunity, raised his wand.

"Then as there are no ladies present to be offended by him, perhaps it is time he found his voice again. Call it a gesture of goodwill."

Before Fred (or Saruman) could protest, he waved his wand in Wormtongue's direction. The advisor clutched at his throat with his good hand, hardly daring to believe his luck.

"Can it be? I can speak! Helm's mighty hammer, I can speak once more!"

Saruman (looking less than thrilled) gritted his teeth in annoyance. "Silence!" he ordered, glowering at the pale man so fiercely that Wormtongue cowered away from him. Raising his eyes, they found the bright blue of Dumbledore's. "What a … magnificent … gesture."

"That's a matter of opinion," muttered Fred, looking at Dumbledore peevishly. The older wizard ignored him, his eyes trained on their host instead.

"Let's redress the claim you made earlier, shall we? The one in which you blamed Neville for the loss of your powers? It's time to be candid, I think; everyone here knows that that is a lie. You lost them entirely due to your own efforts. Fred and I know this, because we have seen those efforts for ourselves, thanks to the Window of Arda."

Saruman paled visibly.

"We know that you manipulated a selfish, vindictive and ambitious man -" Dumbledore gestured towards Wormtongue, who flushed "- into betraying his own country, into poisoning his own king, and into thwarting any efforts made to mount a defence against the invasion you had been secretly planning for years. We also know that your enemies discovered this in time to rout your army."

All pretence at civility gone, Saruman began to pace the chamber, his green face flushed almost purple with rage.

"He ruined all my efforts. All that careful planning over years gone to waste because of a_ boy_!"

"Come, now. I am certain that you give poor Neville entirely too much credit. He was one of many who crushed you, people you have persistently underestimated in your own foolish grasp for power."

"Foolish? Who should dare to grasp at power if not one who may wield it wisely? For only I had the foresight and strength to bring order to Middle-earth! But _he_ ruined all my plans!" growled Saruman, seething. "Worming his way into the good graces of those who once revered _me_; aiding them in the defeat of my army. And then he appears here, at my door, and _dares_ to insult me in my own home – mocks me before kings and princes. Mocks _me_! Do you have any idea what he called me?"

"Curvy?" suggested Fred, gaping at the angry ex-wizard's bulging chest.

Wormtongue laughed rather unwisely, earning himself a vicious slap from his master.

"There is no need for violence," warned Dumbledore, disgusted by the display against a man so clearly unable to defend himself.

Saruman laughed, his eyes glinting maliciously as he faced off against Dumbledore.

"No need for violence, you say. Perhaps not. The time for violence has passed, but the time for vengeance is yet to come!"

"In case your eyesight has failed you, all your stupid plants have been destroyed," Fred informed him, jerking his head in the direction of the mulchy trough. "Not much chance of vengeance now, eh?"

Saruman's wild laughter made Dumbledore's blood run cold.

"You are the fools now!" he cried, circling them until he stood by the trough. "It matters not that you have ruined these pitiful plantlings, for I have already reaped the the first seeds of your friend's destruction! Even now my crebain carry them, searching the lands for their intended target. So gloat all you wish – you are still too late to prevent the inevitable!"

Troubled, Dumbledore closed the distance between them. "Explain yourself," he said softly, dangerously. Saruman didn't even flinch – in fact, he looked delighted by the turn of events.

"Longbottom's Bane grows at an exponential rate. I engineered it thus. A new generation every two hours, until finally I had what I needed. Some seedlings I collected not one hour ago and despatched forthwith. Not as many as I had wished, but then if I took all at once, I would have had none left to cultivate and produce more. Not that it matters now, given that you have destroyed my remnant crop. Yet even that is of little matter in the end – my spies will find your insolent friend eventually, and he will then find his downfall."

Dismay warred with anger as the realisation hit home: they were too late. But perhaps not …

"You will recall those birds immediately," said Dumbledore. Though his tone was even, the glint of anger in his eyes was unmistakeable, and the aura of power rolling off him almost tangible.

Saruman sneered at him. "And ruin my last chance to hold true power? I think not. For I have more in mind for him than simple incapacitation by plants. That is but a small part of a bigger plan! Oh, yes. Longbottom will bow before me ere long, and there is nothing you can do about it!"

The word 'incapacitation' in connection with Neville's surname made Dumbledore grip the edge of the trough in anger.

"If you are referring to the pact you have made with the Dark Lord's Nazgûl, then you are quite wrong," he stated. "Even if it was successful – and it shan't be, for I will personally see to it – then the wraith you hope to make of him would answer to Sauron; Khamûl will see to that. You will have no more control over him than you have over your lost magic."

Saruman reeled, visibly shaken by his words. "How could you possibly know such details?" he whispered, stunned.

Fred, who had been keeping watch over Wormtongue as they spoke, spared him a scathing glance. "Which part of 'friends of your Valar' and 'Window of Arda' didn't you understand, you foul git? We know everything; how you murdered the Prince of Rohan and tried to kill his successor, how you couldn't raise an army strong enough to face another one only a third of its size, how you planned to double-cross Sauron by snatching the hobbits from under his nose. We even saw you getting trounced by a granny. Best laugh of my life, that was. So far."

Which was not entirely true; Fred had been too distracted by Varda's maidservant to witness the _full_ glory of Saruman's thrashing, but Saruman would never know that.

"The game is up, you see," said Dumbledore, still watching his shell-shocked opponent. "Tell me how many birds you despatched, and how to recall them, and my young friend and I shall leave you unmolested."

Cold, hard eyes returned his stare. "There is no recalling them until they have completed their task. And even if there were, I would hardly tell you, now that I know you have a regard for the boy also. As to how many I sent? If indeed you have looked through the fabled Window of Arda, you must know that already!"

An ugly expression of pure smugness settled on his pea-green face.

"Then you force my hand," said Dumbledore regretfully.

Raising his wand, he pointed it at Saruman, who tried to flee, but he was not fast enough.

"_Legilimens!"_

Instead of the expected whirl of coloured images that should have heralded entry into Saruman's mind, Dumbledore was greeted by a wall as ebony as those of the Tower of Orthanc. Skilled Legilimens that he was, his opponent possessed a very able grasp on Occlumency (or whatever the Middle-earth version might be), so that he could not penetrate it. After several fruitless minutes attempting to break through and gain the information he needed, Dumbledore dropped his wand in defeat. Saruman looked drained by the effort of maintaining his defences against such a strong assault, but still mustered the energy to smile victoriously.

"You will have to do better than that, I fear," he crowed. "I have been shielding my thoughts from Sauron himself for longer than you have lived, so your pitiful efforts are hardly a challenge."

"I would hardly call them pitiful when you look so exhausted by the effort," remarked Dumbledore, eyeing the ex-wizard over the rim of his half-moon spectacles. "But you are not the only option available to get the information I need."

Quick as a flash, he crossed the room, and Fred took his place by the trough, his wand trained on Saruman.

"Perhaps you would care to tell me what I need to know? I know you are not magical by birth, whatever pale imitation of the art Saruman has taught you, so I don't expect it would be too much trouble for me to look at your memories. I would prefer to avoid taking the information by force, but I will if I must."

Wormtongue looked worried, but his jaw flexed angrily when Saruman laughed derisively.

"You are more foolish than I thought if you believe I would allow that imbecile to know my plans!"

Straightening, Wormtongue stepped forward and glared at him. "Imbecile you call me, yet I am not blind! Nor deaf!" Turning to Dumbledore, he added, "I knew not all of his plans, but I can tell you that a flock of crebain – raven-like birds – departed the Tower not long ago. How many, I know not, but fewer than normal. The rest have not returned yet from wherever he sent them last."

Hmm. A flock. Not good news. But a flock might be any size …

"Do you mind if I look?" he enquired, pointing at the pale man's head.

Wormtongue cringed. "Will it hurt?"

"Not a bit, I assure you."

Satisfied, the man of Rohan nodded and, with the vociferous objections of Saruman at his heels (and a 'Shut up, Hornhead!' from Fred), Dumbledore performed the Legilimens spell. He didn't need to go far with such a willing subject and such a recent memory; he simply bypassed the superfluous memories of running up stairs, meeting Saruman in the hallway, and cowering in corners until he found the one he needed: Wormtongue looking out of his own bedroom window at the Ents below, then glancing up at the sky …

There!

Backtracking a little, Dumbledore waited patiently until the birds first appeared. Soon they came flying from the window one floor above and headed into the sky, enabling him to get a fairly rough estimate of their numbers. As the sound of their harsh croaks drew memory-Wormtongue towards the window, Dumbledore exited and was soon facing the real one.

"Thank you. You have been most helpful."

"Traitor!" screamed Saruman, "You will pay for that, Wormtongue."

"Oh, shut up, before I make you," drawled Fred, sounding annoyed.

"I do not know how you can stop them now. Saruman is right; they do not return until their mission is completed. But perhaps I might offer a suggestion - for a small favour?"

The former advisor's eyes slid to Saruman, then back to Dumbledore, who waited expectantly.

"I sense that you are a mighty Wizard, mightier than Saruman ever was – mightier even than the Longbottoms or the Red Witch."

"Your point?" said Dumbledore, unwilling to listen to what was so obviously flattery.

"My point," continued Wormtongue, taking a bold step forward,"is that when you are gone, he will do all in his power to ruin me for what I have told you, and what I am about to tell you."

"We can't take you with us, if that is what you ..."

Wormtongue cut him off. "Nay, that is not what I wish. I desire only protection against his vengeance. I am unable to defend myself with only one good arm, and he has two, _and _an uruk servant who obeys his every whim. One or the other might murder me in my bed ere the Sun ever rises again."

"And if I can promise that that will never happen?"

"Then I shall tell you what you need to do to stop the crebain."

The solution seemed obvious. And so simple.

"Fred, if you are still intent on silencing our colourful host, now is your chance," announced Dumbledore, throwing the teenager a cheerful look over his shoulder.

The boy grinned devilishly as Saruman fled for the doorway shouting, 'Borgalak! Borglalak'. Turning on the spot, he appeared at the doorway before Saruman even neared it.

"_Silencio!_"

Saruman screamed in silent rage, and Wormtongue absolutely beamed with delight.

For a few seconds they waited to see if Saruman's final words would spare them the trouble of searching for Borgalak themselves and, sure enough, the hulking uruk came barging through the door, wielding an ugly-looking blade.

"Master! I'm 'ere, m'lord. Wassup? Oy, oo are you lot?" he growled dangerously, and – seeing his red-face master straining, yet unable, to speak - he lifted his sword and charged at Fred.

The Weasley twin Petrified him instantly, and Borgalak froze, looking very much like the most hideous statue ever created.

"Thank you, Fred," smiled Dumbledore, approaching the uruk. Raising his wand, he muttered an Imperious spell. "I trust you won't mention this to the authorities?"

Fred winked. "We _are _the authorities now."

"Ah, how right you are. Well then, let's get on with it, shall we?"

One minute later, Borgalak was unfrozen, glaze-eyed, and hovering protectively by Wormtongue. Saruman dared a cautious step in his traitorous guest's direction, and the uruk growled menacingly.

"One more step an' I'll be serving yore liver for dinner. Wiv onions!"

Blanching, the ex-wizard shrank back towards the trough.

Thrilled by this reversal of fortune, Wormtongue bowed smartly before Dumbledore. "You are true to your word. Very well. Though you cannot recall Saruman's birds, there is one who might help you intercept them. He lives many leagues hence, in Rhosgobel, on the western edge of Mirkwood. A Maia, not unlike Saruman was, or Mithrandir is. Not as powerful, perhaps, but not a fool either." At this last, he threw a derisive look in Saruman's direction. "Radagast the Brown, he is called, and he is unrivalled in all Middle-earth in his mastery of birds, beasts and plants. Even the Elves, as skilled as they are in nature, pale in comparison to him. If any might aid you, then it would be he."

Pleased with the information, Dumbledore nodded in thanks. "Radagast. Ah, yes. Of course. We have heard of him, albeit briefly. Can you tell us how we might reach him?"

Before Wormtongue could answer, there was a yell. Spinning around, Dumbledore found, to his vexation, that Fred was locked in battle with Saruman, his wand skidding across the floor. He Summoned it quickly, just as the ex-wizard threw Fred off with a rogue punch.

Pulling something from his pocket, Saruman held it in one hand and pulled something from it with another. It was a dark blade, sliding out of a black sheath, and even though he was several yards away, Dumbledore could feel the malevolence oozing from it.

"The Morgul blade he has from Khamûl!" yelled Wormtongue in horror. "Flee if you know what is good for you!"

With that, he sped out the room, closely followed by Borgalak, leaving Dumbledore and Fred to the mercy of potential wraith-dom.

Leering horribly, Saruman threw the blade at Fred. Horrified that Fred might be doomed to such a fate, his former headmaster Conjured a Shield to protect him, but to his astonishment, it ploughed straight through it. Luckily, Fred had already rolled out of the way, but Saruman was already leaping towards the blade again.

Dumbledore tried to Banish it, Summon it, and even set it aflame, but it resisted every ounce of his magic. Turning on the spot, he Disapparated, appearing in front of Fred less than a second later.

"I think we have overstayed our welcome," he calmly announced as their manic host seized the blade, sprang to his feet, and threw it at them again.

Without waiting for a response, he grabbed the teenager by the arm, and both wizards Disapparated just as the blade went sailing through the spot where they once stood ...

**XXX**

_Starkhorn Mountain, Rohan_

_Third Age, 10th March 3019_

They reappeared in a cavern many leagues away, high up in the bitterly cold, snowcapped White Mountains. Outside, the wind howled ferociously, but the mouth of the cave was narrow, and so kept the worst of the bite from them.

"I'm sorry, Professor," said Fred, throwing his former headmaster a sheepish glance. "I took my eyes off him for one second – one ruddy second – when Radagast was mentioned, and the next thing I knew he was smacking me over the head with a ruddy trowel. I'm so stupid!"

The teenager smacked his own forehead in disgust, though Dumbledore hardly blamed him for his moment of distraction. These things happened.

"There's no need to berate yourself. I was rather gripped myself when Wormtongue mentioned the mysterious Radagast. At least now we have a chance to intercept the crebain. Now all I have to do is recall which images in the Window of Arda were Mirkwood, and which were not. I believe there is an elven settlement there somewhere – that of King Thranduil. From the maps we studied though, it might be too far north-east. Do you recall seeing it?"

The Weasley twin shook his head. "I remember seeing a hulking great tower on a cliff, an Acromantula's lair, a cool village of houses built into hillsides, and a couple of spooky looking forests, but I couldn't say for certain which one was which. Sorry, Professor. There should be a map in the pack, if you want to check."

Dumbledore did so, but though he found Mirkwood (named Greenwood the Great on the map), neither Thranduil's realm nor Rhosgobel were marked upon it, and its western edge was clearly several hundred miles long. Sighing, he rolled the map back up and returned it to the pack. He could recall several images of a forest - or forests, but now it seemed he would have to spend a few moments deciphering which of them was the likeliest candidate to Apparate to. In the meantime …

"I really think it's high time that you started calling me Albus, Fred. Or Dumbledore, if you prefer. We are, after all, not in Hogwarts any more."

Fred grinned. "No problem, Albus. Feels funny, but I'll get used to it, Albus. So, get your thinking cap on about our next destination while I look around. Albus."

Dumbledore chuckled. Most people had trouble referring to him by his forename, particularly former students (which most people he knew were, given that he was vastly older than most of them). Fred, unsurprisingly, had no such problems.

He settled himself on a rocky outcrop, racking his memories for any clue to Mirkwood's location, whilst the younger wizard conjured a Lumos and began to investigate their surroundings.

"Where is this place, exactly?" queried Fred, poking his wand into a dark corner and discovering a long tunnel leading further into what could only be the mountain they had Apparated to.

"Hmm?" Dumbledore paused in his ruminations to look around the dreary cavern. "I am afraid I can't say for certain. I simply brought us to the first place that popped into my mind."

A rather foolish thing to do, he now realised. Merlin knew what dangers might be lurking around the corner. But the images in the Window had been so numerous and passed so quickly that even he had quite the job of remembering where precisely they were, and whether or not they were bound to be friendly environments; a problem which was making the current identification of Mirkwood such a nuisance.

Fred harrumphed. "Well, at least it's Saruman-free." He turned to face his former headmaster. "D'you suppose that knife he had was the one he intended to use on Neville? If so, maybe we should have destroyed it before we left."

"I already attempted that but, unfortunately, it proved impossible."

An extremely worrying revelation. How on earth was Neville supposed to defend himself against something that was impervious to his magic? If they didn't stop the crebain, and those seeds incapacitated the former Gryffindor, it would enable the boy's easy capture, and that would lead not only to the seizure of the Light of Varda, but to the most dreadful of fates for one of his students. It didn't matter to Dumbledore that – technically speaking – Neville was now of age and had completed his studies; he would _always_ be one of his students, just as Fred and Harry, and even Molly and Augusta were.

And he would do everything in his power to protect them all.

"We could just use the Time-Turner again," suggested Fred sensibly. "You know, go back to an hour before we met Saruman and blow up the trough before he has a chance to send the seeds off with the crebain. Or go back a full day, just to be on the safe side."

"We could. But it hasn't been a full hour since we last used the Time-Turner, and so we would have to wait a little longer. Although, if I am honest, I am hesitant to use it again. If we go back another hour, or even a day, who can say if we might not still stumble into Saruman? Or worse, Khamûl? Since we have no idea when he left Isengard, it is a possibility, and it would most unfortunate to have _him_ succeed in a task where Saruman failed - to wound either of us with that poisoned blade."

Restless, he rose, determined to do something more productive than merely sit around. He could think just as well on his feet as on his posterior.

"Come, Fred. Let us explore our current environment whilst I try to determine our next move."

He rose, cast another Lumos, and together they moved through the tunnel Fred had discovered. The howling of the wind was left far behind them as they passed deeper into the mountain. The tunnel wound this way and that, up and down for over a mile, and the further they travelled, the darker it became.

"Cheery sort of a place, isn't it?" commented Fred, half an hour into their journey. He stopped to admire the walls of the passage, which glinted a faint yellow in the light of his Lumos. "D'you think that's gold?"

Dumbledore waved his wand over the walls, and it, too, caught the numerous veins of colourful ore. "Possibly. But we're not here to prospect, so let's move along."

Reluctantly, Fred obeyed, and they continued down the passage, which was now descending steeply. A few scurrying animals shot ahead of them, alarmed by the noise of intruders.

As they travelled further into the mountain, neither could fail to notice the increasing wind, and the subsequent drop in temperature.

"Crikey," said Fred, shivering. "It's colder than Umbridge in here."

Smiling at the comparison, Dumbledore touched his wand to the teenager, then himself, and their robes instantly warmed. "Cold air from the outside rushing in will reduce the temperature of the lower levels to below freezing."

"But the air's rushing _toward_ us. There must be an exit nearby."

His voice was tinged with excitement, and Dumbledore couldn't blame him. It would be a relief to be free of the confining tunnel. It was quite distracting him from his memories of the Window.

Eager to leave the narrow space, the duo ploughed forward with renewed vigour. Though the temperature plummeted still further, Dumbledore's handy spell kept them warm enough to ignore the worst of the bite. Presently, the passageway rose, and the air warmed a little. Soon after, they came to a fork in the path: one branch leading left, one right, and another straight on. A slight glow emanated from the middle fork, and, by mutual consent, they chose that path, hoping it indicated the light of day ahead.

As they trudged forward, they heard a faint thrumming, and the light grew brighter; at times golden, at times bright white.

"Clouds across the sun," theorised Fred. "At least that means it's not raining."

The thrumming grew louder, and the passage dipped suddenly; both had to slow down before they tumbled out into the yellowy-white brightness of – not daylight – but a vast chamber. High above, a tiny hole in the peak allowed a sliver of daylight to bounce off a huge black rock with jagged peaks in the centre of the chamber, from which the strange thrumming noise seemed to emanate. All around it was arrayed piles and piles of ...

Gold!

Headmaster and student ground to a halt, stunned by the sheer opulence of the scene before them. Wide eyes roamed over huge heaps of glowing coins and goblets, plates and rods, elaborately framed mirrors, trays, and so many, many things made of not only the precious yellow metal, but a silvery one, too. The hoard stretched from one end of the cavern to the next, an endless pile of gold and silver treasures that would have any Gringotts' goblin weeping with sheer ecstasy.

And not only gold and silver, but huge sparkling rocks that could only be jewels. Reds, blues, greens, yellows, oranges, pinks, topaz, among others; either free or embedded within tiaras, crowns, sceptres. There was the breathtaking shimmer of fist-sized diamonds hanging from elaborate necklaces, golden shields encrusted with emeralds and rubies, shining suits of gold and silver armour – even a long table made entirely of gold, with gold carved legs and at least a dozen jewel-encrusted golden chairs.

The thrumming noise had ceased, so that Fred's gasp of, "Oh. Good. Merlin!" resounded around the cavern. He had not recovered as quickly from the shock of such a sight as Dumbledore, who was already in the chamber proper, and – instead of inspecting the treasures within - peering at the rock ahead through his wandlight.

"Hmm. How peculiar," he murmured, unable to see it properly because the light of his wand kept bouncing off precious metals and jewels which almost blinded him with their glare. He fired a wordless _Homenum Revelio_, but that only revealed Fred. Still, thrumming or not, something about this place made him uneasy. There was a strange kind of magic in the air, alluring almost. Dangerous. He could feel it when he looked at the treasure below, and it unsettled him.

Dragging his eyes from the gleaming hoard, he looked determinedly away, and began heading for the other end of the cavern. Something told him they had to get out of here, and quickly.

"Come, Fred. We need to find an exit."

"Exit?" laughed Fred, stepping directly into the cavern and crouching down by a pile of gems. "Who needs an exit? Look at this!" He lifted an emerald the size of a baby's head, grasping it with both hands. "It must be worth fifty thousand Galleons! Who in the name of Merlin would leave something this valuable lying around? In fact, how did any of this get here?"

A good question. A very good question.

Dumbledore's sense of unease grew, and he had the strange feeling that they were being observed. Turning in a circle, he held up his wand, but could discern no obvious third presence.

"Somebody must have brought it here for storage – or rather, a series of somebodies," he said in answer to Fred's query, as he moved towards the farthest wall. He was keener than ever to find an exit. "Perhaps it is the wealth of a small town? Given that we are now in something akin to medieval times, there will be no banks, nowhere to keep it safe from thieves and plunderers. Nothing but this draughty old chamber in the heart of a mountain. It's a rather excellent idea, when you think about it; who but the most determined thief would ever dare such heights just to find it? And would they have the resources to remove it?"

"If that's the case, there must be a watchman or two keeping an eye on it," replied Fred, hugging the emerald possessively.

Which might explain the feeling of being watched.

"Come, Fred. I don't like the feel of this place, and I'd prefer you to stay as close to me as possible. Let's not linger here longer than we have to."

There was no answer.

Concerned, Dumbledore turned to find Fred cradling the gem longingly. He had no concerns about the boy keeping it; he could imagine the temptation he was feeling, given that the Weasleys had never been the wealthiest of families, and had always had to struggle to make ends meet. But Fred was a Weasley, and Weasley was another word for 'honest' in his book.

His good opinion was justified as Fred sighed deeply, then dropped the enormous jewel back onto the pile of glittering gold before joining him.

"What made you put it back down?" asked Dumbledore as they walked around the edges of the chamber, searching the walls for any hidden nook or cranny.

"I didn't think you noticed."

"I am the former headmaster of more members of your family than you can remember. More importantly, I am the former headmaster of a certain pair of infamously mischievous Weasley twins, and so have eyes in the back of my head. Think of me as your mother, but with a rather magnificent beard."

There was a flash of white teeth as Fred grinned. "Welcome to the family." He winked, and Dumbledore chuckled. Sparing a look over his shoulder at the fortune behind them, he added, "Actually, that was the point. Money's not so important - not nearly as important as family. Ten times the amount in this vault would never bring mine to me, or me to them, so what's the point in having it? Okay, if we're lucky, I might get to see Mum again, but she's worth a million times more than this old pile of second-hand trinkets. Besides, if this does belong to someone else, who am I to help myself?"

Dumbledore beamed at him in pride. "There is a lot of decency in that head of yours," he said approvingly. His blue eyes twinkled as he added, "True, there is also an alarming amount of nonsense floating around it as well, but you manage to keep that in check. Most of the time."

Fred's expression was one of mock outrage. "Why, Albus! Are you accusing me of being nonsensical?"

"To a point, but always delightfully so."

"Well, that's all right then. Though what _you_ call nonsense, _I_ call creativity. That's why I don't need to pinch anyone else's fortune – I intend to earn my own."

"A wise decision, little man."

The voice, deep and gloomy, came out of nowhere. Dumbledore and Fred spun around to find that the rock in the middle of the room was _uncoiling_ itself …

"Get behind me," said Dumbledore warningly, pushing his younger companion backwards as the 'rock' lengthened alarmingly. Whatever it was, it was huge, and he silently cursed himself for not having investigated it more closely.

Fred dodged his arm. "Not on your life. We face this together."

A flick of his wand and a very angry Weasley was now at his back. "I will not debate this with you, Fred. Your life is more valuable than you could ever imagine, and so you will do exactly as I say until we leave here. Is that clear?"

"But ..."

"Is that _clear_?"

A grumbling behind him indicated submission, and Dumbledore backed slowly up against the far cavern wall, where an overhang cast a shadow onto the rocky floor. Though no protection, it hid them from view temporarily, giving Dumbledore precious moments to plan his next move as they watched what was unfurling before them, making the walls tremble with its motion.

Or rather, what _had_ unfurled before them.

Looming ahead, barely fifteen metres away, was an enormous creature, over thirty feet in length. The weak shaft of daylight from above hit its back, and they could see it was covered in scales, as dark as the walls around them. A massive head adorned its long, sinuous neck; the eyes within momentarily closed, but the long, dangerous jaw open slightly. It arched its back, and both wizards caught a brief sight of its pale underbelly before it stretched two long legs in front of itself, making the ground underneath shake. It yawned langorously, and a foul stench hit them; Dumbledore quickly Conjured two Bubble-Head charms to ward the worst of it off before they started gagging.

Curved claws adorned the front of the creature's huge feet, and when it finished stretching, it sat back on its rear limbs, causing more trembling underfoot, and treasure tinkled as coins began to flow down the formerly motionless piles. A huge tail tipped with numerous wicked spikes came out of nowhere, curling around its front legs.

Yawning one final time, it quirked its head in their direction and opened its silver eyes. Dumbledore forced Fred further back into the shadow.

"Oof! You're squashing me!"

"Good day, gentlemen," it said politely, silver gaze sweeping the far wall in an attempt to locate them.

The two wizards froze, staring back in nothing short of amazement.

"Did that thing just … _speak_?" exclaimed Fred, aghast.

"Thing?" it drawled, sounding slightly offended. "Why, I am no mere _thing_! I am Draulag the Dreadful, Drake of Déafyrhte."

Behind him, Fred gulped heavily.

"Déafyrhte? Did he say Déa_fyrhte_? As in 'The Pass of'? As in '… _ye must avoid the Pass of Déafyrhte at all costs _...'?"

These were not exactly Manwë's words, but near enough. And now, looking at the hulking monster in front of them, Dumbledore understood why the Vala had mentioned it. If only he'd gone into a little more _detail._

Not that Dumbledore was worried – not for his own sake, at least. He liked to think he was more than up for the challenge of a wingless dragon. He just didn't want Fred to do something rash and end up getting hurt.

Swiftly collecting his thoughts, he debated whether or not he should Disapparate them both out quickly; unfortunately, he was still unsure exactly _where_ Mirkwood was. Of course, he could just pick any one of the three possibilities he had narrowed it down to and hope for the best, but who knew where they would end up? Already they had been attacked by an ex-wizard with a Morgul blade, and now they were facing a huge dragon. Merlin knew what awaited them if he selected yet another unfortunate destination.

"Won't you talk with me?" said the drake, tearing him from his thoughts. "Are you shy? You need not be - I shan't hurt you! Now that you have entered my home, albeit uninvited, you are my guests! I do not often receive guests, so I would gladly speak with you, if you will." It dipped its shiny dark head, and he could almost swear it was smiling. "Perhaps you are lost, little men? It would not surprise me – the Starkhorn is a _very _big mountain! Only I know it intimately. In fact, I know its every twist and curve and hiding place like the back of my foot! So if you _are _lost, I may well be your only recourse to freedom!"

"'Recourse' my foot. Sounds too much like 'main course' for my liking," mumbled Fred.

"Shh," whispered Dumbledore. "Let me do the talking. If it is capable of speech, it must be intelligent. If it is intelligent, then perhaps it can be reasoned with. It might even be able to assist us."

Brown eyes looked up at him doubtfully. "Speech doesn't equal intelligence. Take my brother Ron, for example."

The headmaster rolled his eyes. "Nevertheless, we will try, because I will not destroy an intelligent creature without provocation. Keep your wand ready just in case, but don't do anything rash – not until I tell you to anyway."

He winked at the redhead, who grinned and nodded in understanding. Steeling himself for the inevitable, Dumbledore stepped from the shadows and faced their 'host'.

"Good afternoon, Draulag. My name is Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore."

"Such a big name for such a little man."

"Not that little, I think," contradicted Dumbledore. "Shorter than some, but taller than most."

The dragon opened its great maw slightly, and there was a rhythmic rattle of air which suggested laughter. "To me, all are little who are smaller than I am. And as everyone is smaller than I am, then everyone is little, man or beast!"

It laughed again, sounding very pleased with itself.

Silver eyebrows raised and lowered in amusement.

"When you put it like that, I must agree."

The giant head nodded twice. "Of course you must. Tell me, little Albus, why have you come here? Did you wish to steal my treasure?"

"I am not a thief; your treasure holds little appeal to me."

Silver eyes blinked in a very lizard-like manner. "Holds little appeal? I have never heard such a thing said about treasure before, and certainly not a dragon's treasure!"

Dumbledore's blue gaze swept the fabulous hoard. "Dragon's treasure? Interesting. Do dragons have much use for suits of armour, or tables and chairs?"

Draulag laughed. "I come already equipped with my own suit of armour," he said, lifting his spiked tail. There was a thunderous _clang_ as it struck his back. "You see? No, this treasure here once belonged to dwarves. They lived here many, many, many years ago – long before the yellowhairs, long before even Gondor was born. But they are all gone now."

"What happened to them?"

"Happened? They mined these mountains, accrued this treasure, and I found it and took it from them. That is what we dragons do, you see."

So the dragon had more than likely stolen the dwarves' treasure.

"That can't have made them happy."

"Happy, sad, it matters not. They are dead now, and they were all quite delicious, each and every one! A little tough, but still far tastier than orcs."

How lovely.

The dragon blinked, and lowered its head to peer intently at Dumbledore.

"If you did not come to steal my very unappealing treasure, then might I ask why you are here?"

"You might."

Draulag made a rumbling noise, though whether it was of laughter or irritation, he couldn't say.

"Why are you here?"

"My friend and I are actually trying _not_ to be here."

"Is that so? And where _are_ you trying to be?"

Anywhere _but_ here, truth be told.

"Oh, outside, enjoying the fresh air," replied Dumbledore casually, unwilling to give too much away.

"I see. I cannot say that I blame you; the air is very fresh this high up the mountain."

"You mentioned before that you might be able to help us. Do you know how we might get out of the mountain?"

There was a pause as Draulag's eyes narrowed to silver slits, and then the dragon nodded.

"I do."

Dumbledore watched him carefully, his fingers curled around the Elder wand.

"And will you tell us?" he asked, sounding as deceptively unconcerned as a holidaymaker asking for directions to the beach.

To his surprise, Draulag nodded. "Certainly. On one condition."

"I knew it!" said a voice behind him, and he motioned with his free hand for Fred to remain where he was.

"And what would that condition be?" asked Dumbledore.

The dragon's maw stretched into a horrible smile. "That you leave your little friend behind."

"And why would I do that?"

"Because I haven't eaten in quite a long time, and I find that I am rather hungry."

There was an unmistakably dangerous note to the drake's tone now, and it took a lumbering step forward. But Dumbledore stood his ground.

"Ah. I see. You will understand, I am sure, if I decline that offer. I am rather fond of my 'little friend', you see. Besides, I sincerely doubt that you would be able to eat him."

Booming laughter filled the air. "Why should I not be able to eat him? I may eat anything and anyone that I like! And your little friend tried to steal my jewel, so I think I should like to eat him very much!"

"But he didn't try to steal the jewel. He merely admired it before returning it to where he found it."

"But he _thought_ about stealing my jewel!" roared Draulag, becoming suddenly angry, and stamping one massive foot on the ground. It made the chamber shudder, and more treasure clinked as it slid from its heaps. "The intent is as bad as the deed, and so he is a thief!"

"I am sorry you think that," said Dumbledore regretfully. "I would also dispute your ownership of the jewel in question, or indeed any of this treasure, given that_ you_ stole it from others. But that is neither here nor there. The fact remains that I am not so desperate to leave this mountain that I would sacrifice my friend to your appetite."

"Thanks very much," drawled Fred from behind him.

"You're welcome," quipped Dumbledore, before returning his attention to their reptilian aggressor.

"I don't think you understand quite how generous I am being," said Draulag, sounding amiable once more. "No dragon has ever offered to let someone go free before. Yet I offer you freedom because you showed no interest in my treasure. _And_ because you amuse me. Your little friend, however, does not."

"And I don't think you understand quite how honestly I speak when I say that you would not be able to eat him."

"Why should I not be able to eat him?"

"Because I will have to hurt you if you try."

Draulag's tail came out of nowhere, sailing through the air in a dark grey blur. Dumbledore jumped to the side, avoiding it by mere inches. The impact of the blow shook the cavern, and the tinkling and clattering of treasure filled it once more. Stumbling over a silver helmet, Dumbledore crashed to the ground as the dragon's head swooped down on him. To his chagrin, Fred rushed out to confront it in his stead.

"I told you to stay back!" the older wizard shouted angrily, trying to disentangle his wand from his robe.

"_Conjunctiva!_" cried the teenager, ignoring him. He hit the drake squarely in one of his silver eyes, and it shrank back, roaring in pain.

"D'you know why he said you couldn't eat me?" asked Fred cockily, twirling around so that his jacket billowed around him in a rather fetching way. "Because I made a coat out of the last idiot that tried."

One silver eye widened as Draulag realised what, exactly, Fred was wearing, and then he bellowed in fury.

"Fred, that was not the wisest thing you have ever done," exclaimed Dumbledore, springing to his feet with wand in hand as the dragon began to surge their way once more. It opened its giant maw and roared.

In unison they conjured Shields, but it was not fire that Draulag breathed at them: it was a hail of deadly ice-shards. They pinged harmlessly away, which only enraged Draulag more. He thundered towards them, saliva dripping from his jaws, and lashed out viciously with his tail. It struck the wall at their backs and the ledge above, and dust and stones rained heavily on top of them, bringing them to their knees.

"Shield me!" called Dumbledore, shaking off the detritus of the ledge and jumping to his feet.

Fred rushed up behind him, his Shield covering both their heads. As Draulag neared, his great jaws widening once more, Dumbledore lashed out with the Elder wand.

"_Lapis extremum!_"

A jet of purple light shot across the chamber, catching Draulag mid-lurch. The icy shards he expelled turned from white to grey, then dropped to the ground, but the purple jet didn't stop. It sailed directly into his mouth, catching him on the sensitive membranes at the back of his throat.

Draulag barely had time to react. One cry of surprise was all he managed before he began to solidify from the inside out, turning from black to grey from head to tail, until – within minutes – he was nothing more than an enormous stone sculpture, stretching thirty feet long and towering twenty feet high.

Sagging slightly in relief, Dumbledore shook his head once, straightened, and removed their Bubble-Head charms before striding forward to inspect Middle-earth's fiercest statue. Fred joined him.

"I think I prefer it like this," remarked the Weasley twin, smacking their former foe on the flank. "Charlie would be miffed. He'd have had kittens at the thought of meeting a talking dragon. Or drake."

"I almost had kittens myself when you confronted it after I told you to stay by the wall."

"D'you mean that wall he almost brought down on top of us?" said Fred, his freckled face a picture of innocence.

Dumbledore chuckled. "Touché. Forgive me, Fred, but I can't help feeling protective of a former student, especially one so young."

"Young? Rubbish! We're the same age now, aren't we? Born at the same time. That sort of makes you my new twin brother."

His head dropped for a moment, realising what he had just said.

"Sorry. I miss George. It's hard to be me without him." He looked back up at Dumbledore, his brown eyes moist. "This isn't going to be as easy as I thought."

Sympathy welled within Dumbledore. He could only imagine how difficult it must be for his young friend.

"No. It won't. Loss never is easy. But let me give you one piece of advice: weep not for those whom you leave behind, for they have bloomed knowing the joy of your embrace; hasten instead to those you have yet to meet, lest they wither for the lack of it."

Red eyebrows lifted dubiously. "Did you steal that from a Chocolate Frog card?"

"Worse, I'm afraid. I made it up. Dreadfully sentimental, isn't it?"

They grinned at each other.

"Speaking of stealing, I have some rather good news that will definitely lift your spirits – for a while at least."

"Oh, yes? What's that?"

Dumbledore waved a hand around the chamber. "It seems we find ourselves amidst an ownerless treasure – at least until we find the descendants of those dwarves to whom it belonged. And I do not think that – having disposed of the terror which robbed them of their families and their fortunes, and then being unexpectedly reunited with said fortune - they would have any objection to you seeking out one piece of jewellery to give to your mother when you see her again."

"You know what?" smirked Fred, as he waggled a finger back and forth in the space separating them. "I'm feeling a definite twin-vibe between us already, because that's _exactly_ what I was thinking!"

Shaking with amusement, Dumbledore Summoned two of the golden chairs, Transfigured them into comfortable armchairs, and took a seat in one while waiting for Fred to make his selection. Ten minutes later, the beaming redhead pocketed his desired piece and joined him. Already the former headmaster had retrieved two leaves of lembas from their supplies and filled two sparkling silver goblets with coffee from his wand.

"I'm getting used to this stuff," said Fred, munching on a piece of the elven bread. "Oh, it's a bit sweet, and not a patch on Mum's cooking, but it's still nice." He swallowed, then said, "Have you located our next destination yet?"

"We have one of two possibilities," said Dumbledore, his forehead puckered in thought. "Unfortunately, it is difficult to tell where either is in relation to Radagast's home."

Not that he even knew what Radagast's home looked like, another problem he had been mulling over.

"If we end up Apparating too far south, we shall be dangerously close to Dol Guldur," he continued. "If, however, we appear too far north, it will take us days to travel south – time we do not have. Unless ..."

His face brightened for a moment as his hand dipped into his pocket. Pulling out the Time-Turner, though, he frowned.

"What's wrong?" asked Fred.

Dumbledore held up the tiny hourglass: it was shattered, and tiny, silver grains of sand spilled from it.

"It appears my fall earlier damaged it," he said.

"Can't you just repair it with your wand?"

"That would be most unwise. Damaged Time-Turners cannot be repaired so easily, and it would be dangerous to try. They require a specific, and very complex, branch of magic to undo damage that only few wizards bother to learn; and the only wizard I ever knew of who was capable of such magic died many years ago. Another reason why the Ministry was so upset by the damage to the Department of Mysteries several years ago. Oh, well. Nothing we can do about that now. We shall simply have to Apparate to one spot, and if we ascertain that it is completely the wrong place, then Apparate to the other as soon as possible."

He rose from the chair, shrank their pack of supplies, and repocketed it. After swallowing his last mouthful of coffee, Fred stood, too.

"Not only that, but wherever we end up, we'll have to locate someone who can tell us precisely where Radagst lives, otherwise we'll just be wandering through the forest forever," pointed out Fred. "It might be a better idea if we Apparate back to Isengard and ask Wormtongue. He seemed to be warming to us."

But Dumbledore vetoed that idea, unwilling to expose either of them to the Morgul blade again. If it struck Fred – or worse, him – then Middle-earth would gain an enemy that would make the Witch-king of Angmar seem like a Pygmy Puff by comparison.

"We'll have to make do with a Patronus. I'll send one to Radagast when we arrive, explaining our need to meet with him. If he can despatch a message by post owl, or whatever bird he thinks might carry us a list of directions without shredding the parchment, then we must make do with that. If not, I shall be forced to enchant our bedrolls, and we must seek him the hard way: flying over the forest."

"You can make our bedrolls fly? Like magic carpets? I never knew that! Isn't that illegal? I mean, not that _I'm_ complaining, but I thought you had to have special training, or work in the Department of Magical Transport."

The awe in Fred's voice was tangible; his brown eyes sparkling with new found excitement. Dumbledore nodded modestly.

"You are correct. But I am – or I was – the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, and had many friends from various departments within the Ministry. It would shock you to know how little Firewhiskey is required to loosen tongues. I know a great deal that I probably shouldn't, and a good deal more than that besides."

He winked at Fred conspiratorially, who laughed in delight.

"And now, young Fred, if you will be so kind as to take my arm, I think we ought to Side-along again for this. Let's hope our next destination proves a little more hospitable than the previous two, shall we?"

Setting his empty goblet on the golden chair, Fred nodded.

"All right, young Albus, third time lucky, eh?"

Once his grip was secure, Dumbledore twisted on the spot, whisking them both away from the innards of the Starkhorn, and the now eternally frozen leer of Draulag the Not-So-Dreadful, towards the murky forest of Mirkwood ...

... and right into the camp of four hundred well-armed, snarling, and extremely surprised orcs.

Dumbledore sighed in annoyance. "Good morning, gentlemen," he said, resigned to their third fight in two hours.

Fred shook his head, raised his wand, and huffed in disgust. "Here we go again ..."

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Author's Note_: Chapter title means 'everything imperfect comes in threes' in Latin. Don't be too impressed - I stumbled upon it by chance on the net. My own Latin's about as fluent as my Martian (though some people might argue that's excellent).

It's hard to get the chemistry right between them given their new incarnations; and especially hard to nail Fred's post-George persona. Would he be so confident and cocky if he's missing his twin, or would death have afforded him another perspective of the loss; brought an easier acceptance of it? And yet now here he is, alive again, and trying to adjust to life as a 'singleton', albeit in a different time.

Aargh, the dilemma!

But I can't spend too much time dwelling on that just now, because it's not the focus of the story. Maybe later ...

Anyway, hopefully, the chapter's not too much of a mess. I'll reproof it again tomorrow, just in case.

Next up: Neville & Molly! Woohoo!

Kara's Aunty ;)


	45. Memories

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. and Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

**Credit: **en-wikia, hp & lotr wikias, Tolkien Gateway, EoA, HoME v5 The Etymologies, wordreference dot com, Google Translate.

**Chapter 45**

* * *

_The Plains of South Gondor_

_Third Age, 13th_ _March 3019_

The Battle on the Plain (or the Battle of the Wrathful Fëar, as it was also known) was one of the greatest routs in the history of Middle Earth. In less than an hour, and with the help of various joke products, Neville and Molly had managed to cause enough confusion to thoroughly spook Sauron's forces into fleeing for the hills, where the unfortunate fellows had run headlong into the merciless (and _very_ scary) Marble Army. Thanks to the stony warriors, over three thousand hostiles soon dwindled to less than two thousand, and those who did manage to escape the unflinching wrath of Galador and his followers turned tail and fled south down the plain, only to be struck with terror at the sight of the newly arrived 'headless' army of Dol Amroth.

A wave of simultaneous neighing, trumpeting and hundreds of deafening screams for 'mummy' swept across the plain as horses and mûmakil veered east and careened their panicked way through the bushes where Neville and Molly had so recently hid, soon to be lost from sight. Enemy soldiers doubled back and dashed towards the relative safety of the river. Many never made it that far as winged statues began plucking them up one by one and dropping them into the path of either the stampeding beasts or their land-based brethren. Most of those who did reach the Anduin drowned in the attempt to cross it (mainly due to the fact that Galador and his mates followed them in and grabbed their ankles before sinking to the bed beneath).

Now, a mere three hours after the arrival of Elphir's men, the clash between the two forces was over and victory had been declared by the beaming Gondorians. Dozens of fresh campfires sprung up and the sound of voices raised in song floated around the plain as men rolled out barrels of ale from the supply wagons and began drinking themselves into unconsciousness.

"Never have I had such fine sport in battle!" declared Elphir, wiping his sweaty forehead with the back of a gloved hand. Despite the long night he had behind him, his grey eyes were bright and his face was alive with excitement. "Never! Did you see how they fled from us ere we lifted so much as a sword?"

"I noticed not; I was too busy marvelling at the Lady Molly!" declared Halbarad.

He was referring to the moment when he spied Molly (who had, seconds earlier, almost caused a plain-wide coronary by transforming back from a hulking blond warrior into a flying, flame-haired hellion) performing a rather spectacular Bat Bogey hex on a Mûmak. Then - instead of allowing the resultant bogey to pester the (poor, terrified) creature it had issued from - she Engorged it to mammoth proportions and sent it soaring towards the small troop of Southrons who had been trying (fruitlessly) to dislodge her from the heavens with a volley of arrows. The sight of the monster mucus hurtling towards them had sent the beleaguered chaps scattering in all directions. Alas, to no avail. The super-sized snotter simply split itself into twelve man-sized fragments which chased each enemy for several minutes before catching and forever enfolding them in their disgustingly slimy embrace.

"A little something special from my daughter, you rotten lot!" she'd yelled, causing Halbarad to grin from ear to ear (before launching his 'headless' self at the only Haradrim soldier daft enough to try and hack Vorondwen's legs out from under him).

Death by bogey. Ginny _would_ be proud!

"I jumped from my steed and faced twelve men alone!" boasted Aglador, keen to reveal his own exploits in battle. "Except they never saw my face - in fact, they never saw my head. All they saw was my body charging in their direction, and _every last one turned about and ran screaming from me_! Hah! I would almost be disappointed at not spilling so much as a drop of traitorous enemy blood had I not so very greatly enjoyed the impact my mere presence had upon them!"

Neville was torn between a grin and a grimace. Ruddy hell! Give a Gondorian a hat and he turns into a swaggering psychopath! A _cocky_ swaggering psychopath.

"Yeah, yeah. You were all brilliant," he said, finally deciding on the grin as he watched smoke curl up from one of the many pyres he and Molly had constructed after the conclusion of battle. With the use of magic, they had piled upon them the slain Mûmakil, and those poor horses who had been trampled by them, and a kind westerly wind blew the worst of the stench of burning flesh away from their noses.

On Elphir and Molly's orders, the statues had recovered all corpses from the river and the plain and were even now depositing them in two long makeshift graves at the base of the hills. The three Gondorians who died (two knights and a farmer, all trampled to death by stampeding animals) had been buried with full honours in cairns magically erected on the tallest hill-top.

Wounded soldiers (mainly enemy) were carted into tents which had been erected close by the trampled bushes, and those Gondorians with healing skills assisted Molly in splinting, dressing and - where required - the amputation of mangled limbs. Very, very few Haradrim and Easterling soldiers had escaped death or injury to be taken as prisoners of war; Elphir (still wearing his Headless Hat) had then addressed the terrified men, instructing them (in a spooky, theatrical hiss) never again to take up arms against Gondor or her allies, or the Sons of Folcwine would pursue them and their numerous kin until all their lines were wiped from the face of Arda. With much begging and weeping they had agreed before Elphir ordered them to return immediately to their homes and never to set foot in the West again.

Neville had never seen so many men run so very fast in all his life.

"Come!" exclaimed Elphir, whose dark hair whipped behind him, free of the confining hat at last. "It is time to celebrate our victory."

With that, he turned on his heel and led the small company through the lingering darkness, southwards down the plain, where the Dol Amrothians had set up their camp. Halbarad clapped Neville on the shoulder, urging him to follow as they made for the Royal Tent. Every shining knight or marshal (or Cobas Haven fisherman) they passed punched the air victoriously and buoyantly declared himself ready to march to Mordor that very instant to rout Sauron from his tower, if only the 'Rohirric princes' would lead them.

Neville declared himself well up for it, but thought it best to point out that Molly (a witch) might not take too kindly to being likened to a big hairy blond bloke, a comment which caused much hilarity among the men.

Moments later, all four arrived at the spacious tent to find Erchirion already there, pouring himself a goblet of white wine. He raised it up in a toast, grinning at them before he downed it. The younger prince had already removed his mail, and was now wearing only a blue and white tunic and long dark breeches, the bottoms of which were swallowed up by his calf-length boots. Sporting damp hair and a shiny face, it was obvious that he had recently washed.

Looking at him standing there, all fresh and clean, made Neville suddenly aware of how filthy and sweaty he felt in his Rohan armour. A sentiment shared by his companions, apparently, for Elphir ordered hot water and towels be brought to them, and the next half hour was spent removing armour, scrubbing faces and bodies (behind a screen for Neville, who was far too self-conscious to strut about in his birthday suit like everyone else) and donning clean clothes.

Once refreshed, Neville emerged to find the others were as equally shiny and fragrant as Erchirion, and dressed more comfortably in tunics and breeches (or jeans and a Weird Sisters t-shirt, in his case).

"Come, young Wizard!" said Elphir, grabbing him by the arm and pushing him into a chair by the table, where everyone sat devouring the platters of bread, butter and cold meats which had magically appeared out of thin air (or so it seemed). A generous goblet of wine was thrust into his hand. "Let our first toast this morn be to Folcred and Fastred, Sons of Folcwine, the twin Princes of Rohan, who gave their noble lives to protect Gondor so many years ago, and who protect her still, even in death! May they know as much glory and honour in the halls of their fathers as they will ever enjoy in the halls of Dol Amroth."

"To Folcred and Fastred!" chorused everyone, and Neville joined in the general clinking of goblets before taking a healthy swig of his wine.

Which was absolutely disgusting.

The dry, acrid taste made his tongue shrivel in his mouth, and Neville fought to swallow the liquid instead of giving in to the instinct to spray it all over the table (which, though understandable, might be construed as extremely disrespectful to the twin princes, who might be offended enough to actually come back and haunt him. Forever.).

"What the bloody hell was that?" he spluttered, glaring at his silver goblet in deep offence as its contents coursed a horrible path into his stomach.

"Anfalas wine," winked Aglador, whose scarred face lit up in amusement at Neville's disgusted expression. "An acquired taste, admittedly."

"Acquired normally after the fourth or fifth goblet," added Erchirion. "It does not taste so dreadful thereafter."

"Fourth or fifth goblet?" Neville laughed in shock. "Who in their right mind drinks more than one goblet of this Basilisk pee?"

"What is a Basilisk?" enquired Elphir, deeply fascinated.

"More to the point, why do you imbibe on its waste products, whatever it may be?" drawled Halbarad, torn between disgust and amusement.

"He doesn't. It's only an expression. And a rather vulgar one at that." This from Molly, who came bustling into the tent with her knapsack in hand.

There followed a great cheer and many exclamations of 'Wondrous lady!' and 'Honoured Protectress of the West!' as the Middle Earthlings converged on her as one, embracing her, kissing her hands and generally fussing over her.

"Boys, boys, boys!" she laughed, emerging from the strapping crowd with a scarlet face and a beaming smile. "What a lovely welcome! But let me take the weight off my feet, please!"

Four grown men fought for the honour of taking her arm and escorting her (a whole three steps) to the table (Elphir - pulling rank - won).

Molly sank gratefully into a chair and Halbarad filled a silver goblet with Anfalas wine, which he proudly presented to her.

"A toast to the Lady Molly Weasley, the fairest prince Rohan has ever produced!" he declared, bowing grandly before her.

Molly swatted his dark head playfully. "Silly boy!"

"The deadliest prince Rohan has ever produced," said Aglador.

Molly nodded. "True, true," she agreed, eliciting a round of raucous cackling.

"The curviest prince Rohan has ever produced," noted Erchirion with a wink as he lifted her hand and bestowed another kiss upon it.

Neville frowned. "Watch it, mate. She's married. And so are you."

But Molly took the comment in the spirit it was meant, and giggled girlishly, to the delight of the four hulking blokes who were hovering around her.

Temporarily distracted by the sound of grown men cooing over his Guardian, Neville took another sip from his goblet and promptly gagged.

"Why do you buy this stuff if you know it tastes so bad?" he demanded of Elphir, who had now retaken his seat.

"It is reserved for after battle only. If we win, it will serve its purpose until we return home and the real celebration can begin. If we lose, however …well, we cannot have the Enemy toasting our defeat with our finest wine."

"Hear, hear!" agreed Erchirion, raising his goblet.

With that, everyone drank to Molly's health.

Then to Neville's.

And Halbarad's.

Then to the Headless Army's.

And then to the Marble Militia's health (although they, technically speaking, were not even alive).

Forty minutes, over a dozen toasts, and two refills later, Neville found that Erchirion had spoken truly. Anfalas wine did not taste so ghastly after all. In fact, it was quite nice, really.

Actually, it might even be the best wine he had ever tasted!

"To Anfalas wine!" he declared loudly, raising his goblet in appreciation before taking a huge gulp.

"To Basilisk pee!" his merry friends replied in unison, and Neville snorted so loudly he almost choked on his wine.

"Careful, dear!" exclaimed Molly, leaning over to thump him on the back.

Halbarad grabbed Neville's goblet and set it aside. "Perhaps it is time you drank less wine and more ale, my young friend. 'Tis less potent."

Feeling rather peeved, Neville glared at Halbarad as he started to call out to one of the guards standing outside the Royal Tent, but Molly intervened with a shake of her head.

"Leave him be, dear. If he wants to drink some more wine, well, he's certainly earned it after all his exertions today."

The ranger gave the flame-haired mother a look of surprise. "You would let the young one drink himself into senselessness? Forgive me, but he strikes me as being unused to the effects of too much wine. I had thought - as his Guardian - you might prefer him to keep a clear head."

Far from looking guilty, Molly simply nodded. "Of course I do. But he'll only learn to treat alcohol with respect once he understands how unpleasant it can be to recover from the effects of too much of it."

Respect? Hah! Neville respected it very much already. In fact, he quite fancied another goblet ...

"Don't worry, Halbarad," continued Molly, as Neville lunged across the table in pursuit of the huge flagon Elphir had just set down, "I am the mother of several grown boys, so I do know what I'm doing. I'll make sure he's perfectly all right. Besides -" she rifled through her knapsack and pulled out a bright orange bottle, which she waved under the ranger's nose "- I packed a whole litre of Calamity Kopfweh's Instant Hangover Cure just in case."

"An interesting method of conditioning your young. How very devious you are," mumbled Halbarad, staring in fascination at the label on the bottle, where a middle-aged man with bloodshot eyes and a pained expression on his face was rubbing his balding head. The man then drank a tiny glass of orange liquid and instantly his eyes cleared, his face lit up, and he began whistling happily (though silently). The ranger's grey eyes rose from the bottle to land on Neville, who had recaptured his confiscated goblet, downed the contents (some of which dribbled down his chin) and was even now refilling it with more from Elphir's flagon. "And insightful, for it will be much needed later, I deem," he added, and they shared a mischievous grin.

Neville - who by now was feeling spectacularly happy - was sitting with his goblet in one hand and had flung the other arm around Aglador's neck, and both were now comparing the length and histories of their scars.

"Mine are bigger than yours," he stated emphatically, tracing the length of one from his temple to his cheek.

"I beg to differ, young Wizard. Mine is most definitely bigger than yours!" returned the older man. Aglador freed himself from Neville's grip, twisted in his seat, and pulled his hair back to reveal his left ear. "See? It runs from here -" he pointed one long finger at the apex of his ear and followed the pale line down his cheek to where it tapered off on his chin "- all the way to here. It only looks shorter because it curves so."

Neville snorted, unconvinced. "Who gave you it, then?" he demanded, thinking it was probably the result of some impressively heroic feat in battle. "A Corsair? An Orc? Your wife?"

The last remark had everyone rolling with laughter.

"You are almost correct. Many years ago, when I was but a boy, I went for a morning swim in the Cobas Haven. Alas, but I had not reckoned with the tide, and soon found myself swept along and snagged at the pier by a fisherman's daughter, who had spent over an hour trying to catch the most enormous sunfish."

"And she caught you instead!" chuckled Neville. "What a disappointment that must have been!"

"On the contrary, impudent child," said Aglador, thumping him on the arm with a meaty fist (which hurt). "'Twas the start of a beautiful friendship, and I married the maiden not five years later. This scar is a token that we were destined to be together."

Neville fought the sudden urge to vomit (though whether it was because of the wine or Aglador's syrupy expression, he couldn't really tell). Deciding it was Aglador's fault, and determining that he'd had as much gooey sentimentality as he could handle for the day, he took another long draught of the (delicious) Anfalas wine.

"Well, I didn't get mine quite so romantically," he said, hiccupping as he thumped his empty goblet down on the table (Erchirion refilled it instantly). "My phizzog was scarred by a twat in a hat. Well, a couple of twats, really."

Aglador frowned. "Phizzog? Twat?"

Grinning, the teenager explained that 'phizzog' meant face, and 'twat' meant Carrow. "And not once did I propose marriage to either of them. The Carrows, that is. Still, they did leave me a little reminder of our time together, the gits," he added, jerking a thumb at the right side of his face. "But I don't feel bad about it. In fact, when I see the scars, it makes me smile, 'cos I know we beat them in the end. So who has the last laugh now?"

He took a draught of wine, and after he swallowed, Neville hiccupped again.

Crikey. Was he drunk?

Thrusting a hand in front of his face, he carefully counted five digits.

Nope. Not drunk. Not yet.

Grinning, he slapped Aglador on the back. "Want to hear my scar song? You'll love it!"

And so he began:

"_Tingle tingle massive scar_

_Upon this face which you mar_

_You've make me look quite a sight_

_All the girls run off in fright_

_Tingle tingle massive scar_

_Upon this face which you mar_

**o0o**

_Once I used to be a hit_

_All the girls thought I was fit_

_Now they're completely agog_

_At the sight of my phizzog_

_Thanks to you, you rotten scar_

_Thanks for being such a star!"_

**o0o**

More deep booms of laughter followed this; Molly, however, tutted and chastised Neville for putting himself down.

"I'm not. I'm only having a laugh!" he protested, grinning at her like an idiot (which he was).

"'Tis the worst song I have ever heard!" chortled Halbarad, looking vastly amused.

"And in the worst singing voice I have ever heard," gasped Elphir. "Elbereth, even Amrothos sings better than you."

"I know. I'm completely crap, aren't I?" admitted Neville, sniggering into his goblet.

"You're like a house-elf with a Butterbeer," sighed Molly, rolling her eyes in disgust. The comment struck Neville as hilarious, and he rocked back and forth on his seat in great amusement. But her comment had a different effect on Halbarad, who perked up instantly.

"House-elf, you say?" he said, his goblet freezing on its journey to his mouth. "What, pray, is a 'house' elf, exactly? Is it aught akin to the elves of Arda?"

"Oh no, dear. For one thing, we say 'elfs' where you say 'elves'. And our elfs are much fonder of housework!" She blushed, hastening to add "Not that I'm saying Lothlórien was grubby or anything like that -" Halbarad snorted into his goblet "- it's just that housework is an absolute obsession with elfs. And cooking. Many of the wealthier wizarding households keep them - as does Hogwarts, the school where Neville and my children were taught!"

"'Keep' them? They do not have homes of their own?"

Neville, catching the tail end of the conversation, shook his fuzzy head. "No, they live with the wizarding families they're bound to."

"Bound to?" Halbarad looked scandalised. "Do you mean they are _slaves_?"

His exclamation caught the attention of the remaining three men, who all looked at Neville and Molly in surprise.

"No, not really. I mean, yes, sort of. What I _mean_ is that a house-elf lives to serve. And as they are magical, they serve magical households - well, it wouldn't do to have them running about in Muggle ones, would it? Imagine the uproar that would cause. In any case, serving is what a house-elf lives for above everything else. Nobody really knows why, and - to be honest - nobody's bothered much to find out. It's a mutually beneficial relationship, in most cases: wizarding families have all their cooking and cleaning done for them by an unswervingly loyal servant, and house-elfs have a job they love and a family they can devote themselves to caring for. Worst thing for them would be to be liberated, because - among their kind - it's a mark of great shame. Sort of like a testament to their inability to do their job properly."

This stunned the Middle Earthlings for a few moments, until finally Halbarad began musing aloud. "So though they share a name, of sorts, with Elves in Arda, they are, it seems, a different race?"

Both Chosen One and Guardian chuckled.

"Worlds apart, mate. Worlds apart. They don't even _look_ like each other!" stated Neville, taking a gulp of wine and thumping the goblet back on the table. Liquid sloshed over the rim and dribbled off the table, soaking his jeans.

"Oh, Neville," sighed Molly, flicking her wand at him, and the stain disappeared.

His attention, however, was claimed by Halbarad, who was leaning across the table and staring at him with a strange sort of intensity.

"I would give much to see one of these 'house-elfs'," he breathed, his eyes glinting in almost feverish anticipation.

"You would?" asked the teenager, surprised.

"I would," affirmed Halbarad seriously.

Blimey, he really would, wouldn't he? In fact, he looked keener than a Carrow at a Muggle-baiting contest. Though what he expected Neville to be able to do about it the teenager really didn't know. He couldn't exactly Summon one on command.

Then again, maybe he didn't have to …

Grinning at the ranger's sly ways, Neville asked Molly if he could borrow her Pensieve. "To show them what a house-elf looks like. I've got exactly the right memory for it."

"What a wonderful idea!" declared Molly, beaming at him as she Summoned the Pensieve from her knapsack and placed it on the table. After removing the relevant memory from Neville's head (Elphir, Erchirion and Aglador paled horribly when they saw the gossamer-thin strand being pulled from his temple) and placing it in the pretty elvish bowl, and then giving the three Dol Amrothians some words of explanation, instruction and reassurance, they all stood up and leaned over the bowl one by one …

**XXX**

The six landed in Neville's living room, where the Middle Earthlings stood in slack-jawed astonishment as they gaped at the strange new environment.

A large Christmas tree, festooned with tinsel, baubles and a real fairy, took pride of place before the patio doors. Walls were so covered with photographs, Christmas cards and festive paper chains that the colour of the paint underneath was completely indistinguishable. To one side of the room stood a grand cherrywood-and-glass cabinet, choc-a-bloc with family heirlooms and knick-knacks. A long red sofa sat (empty) in the middle of the room, in front of which was a simple cherrywood coffee table with a festive red-green-and-gold cloth over it. Aglador pointed excitedly at the two ornamental reindeer with glowing red noses, who raced each other across its length before turning around and dashing the other way.

On a cabinet by the east wall, Celestina Warbeck's dulcet tones drifted from a huge, old-fashioned radio.

"_On the first day of Christmas_

_my true love sent to me:_

_A Phoenix in a Fir Tree ..."_

"Sweet Elbereth!" cried Erchirion, heading straight for it. Bending down, he examined it on all sides, then peeked into the small space behind where it almost met the wall.

"... _On the second day of Christmas_

_my true love sent to me:_

_Two Diricawls_

_and a Phoenix in a Fir Tree ..."_

Celestina trilled away, almost driving Erchirion mad with curiosity as he tried to pick up the radio to examine it from beneath (his hands passed through it, leaving him very frustrated).

"Where is she?" he demanded of Neville upon straightening. "Where is the songstress? Have you imprisoned her _inside this box_?"

"Don't be daft. We don't go around chucking people in boxes!" chortled Neville. "It's a radio. It plays music for our entertainment, but there aren't actually people inside it."

"Then how do you explain the voice?"

Not really wanting to go into the mechanics of how radios worked (because he really didn't know), the teenager bluffed his way out.

"Magic. It's just a magical music box, that's all."

"That is _all_?" snorted Erchirion, gazing at the radio covetously. "Hah! How casually you speak of such wonders! Had I such a magical music box, I would take it to every corner of Arda and share the wonder of it with all!"

Which would mean exposing all of genteel, conservative Middle Earth to the comparatively risqué Ms Warbeck. Good thing he didn't have a magical music box, then.

"Observe!" cried Aglador, pointing excitedly above the fireplace, where a huge painting of several people in frilly collars, shockingly tight leggings and voluminous dresses hung. Two young men within, clutching mistletoe, were chasing three maidens around an enormous table, calling for them to stop and 'bestow a festive embrace' upon them, whilst the women ran away screaming and giggling hysterically. An older women in a frothy grey cap jumped into the men's path and hexed them for 'their ungentlemanly conduct' while four others sat clinking flowing glasses as they sang a (very bawdy) song about Father Christmas, the Himalayan Hag, and a rather enormous courgette.

"Erm, yeah. Ancestors," explained Neville sheepishly. "They normally just sit there and play Exploding Snap. But it's Christmas, so, you know."

He shrugged, then grinned happily.

Halbarad and Elphir, meanwhile, were inspecting the bauble-bedecked Christmas tree, circling it in fascination at first before their attention was captured by the pretty fairy in the golden dress sitting atop it.

"A winged maiden!" breathed Elphir, utterly captivated by the silvery-winged lass. "Can she fly?"

Molly answered his question with a shake of her head. "No, dear. That is, she can, but she'll have been charmed to stay exactly where she is. And a good thing too; fairies might look sweet and innocent, but they have a very annoying habit of stealing teeth - and they're not too bothered if said teeth are lying under your pillow or still in your mouth."

"They steal the very teeth from one's mouth?" demanded Halbarad incredulously. He cast a dubious glance at the enchanting creature, who was seemingly fascinated by the reindeer racing across the table. "That I cannot believe."

"Believe it," she replied firmly. "My Great Aunt Winifred once spent three days in St Mungos having her whole mouth reconstructed after she woke up in the middle of the night to find that three of the little blighters had tied her hands behind her back, wedged her gums open wide with a fork, and were helping themselves to her pearly whites. With the aid of Uncle Oswyn's claw hammer, of course. She's been living on custard ever since. It's the only thing she can eat without having to chew."

Though, given the damage aforementioned fairies had done to her mouth, it was a wonder the poor lady could eat at all.

Having seen their fill of magical radios, paintings and vicious fairies, everyone's attention now turned to one of the two red armchairs situated by fireplace, in which Neville's memory-self was hunched, staring absently at the flickering flames. His face was not quite as scarred at that time, with only one faint gash lining his right cheek, and he fingered it absently. The other armchair was occupied by an old woman with a tight, iron-grey bun and a green woollen dress. Her thin eyebrows were drawn into a frown as she studied the teenager over the rim of her tea-cup.

"Your grandmother?" guessed Elphir, and was rewarded with a nod of affirmation.

"Yeah. That's Gran. She's a bit … forceful, if you don't know her. In fact, she's forceful even if you do, but her heart's in the right place. She wouldn't hurt a fly."

Unless said fly was trying to hurt her. Or had very bad manners.

All conversation ceased as the old lady suddenly spoke up.

"What are you looking so glum about? Surely not that scratch? You should be proud of it."

Memory-Neville grunted in response.

"Verbalise, young man. Verbalise! How on earth am I supposed to know what's bothering you if all you do is sit there and grunt?"

"You know what's bothering me, Gran," he muttered darkly. "Luna's disappearance. The Carrows torturing everyone at school. Professor bloody Snape prancing about Hogwarts like he's the king of the castle. And this bloody war! This bloody war."

The elderly witch frowned. "Language, Neville Longbottom! Just because society's going down the toilet, doesn't mean your vocabulary has to follow suit. And sit up properly, for goodness' sake!"

"You want me to sit up straight and mind my language while Luna's languishing Merlin knows where?" Memory-Neville flew out of his armchair and glared at his grandmother in challenge. "How's that supposed to make me feel better? Luna was taken with the blessing of the Ministry. That's the Death Eater _controlled_ Ministry, in case you've forgotten! You know, the one that's now ruled by You Know Who? And we can't do a thing about it! Not a thing! Bloody hell; she's only sixteen, and she might be rotting in Azkaban while we sit here eating mince pies and sipping tea! Tormented by Dementors that've been given free rein to do as they please to her. For all anyone knows, they might even have …" He stumbled to a halt, unable to finish the sentence.

Behind the sofa, where the real Neville was watching with Molly, Halbarad and the others, he added "Kissed her. I was going to say 'kissed her'." His voice had suddenly lost a little of its earlier merriment.

Feeling four pairs of eyes on him, he elaborated. "A Dementor is a horrible Dark creature that sucks your soul out through your mouth and leaves you worse than dead."

Shock and outrage lined his friends' faces.

"Monsters! Fiends! To treat a child thusly!" exclaimed the princes from Dol Amroth, even as Halbarad and Aglador - looking ready to kill - both fumbled about for their swords (forgetting they had already removed them) and looked around murderously, half-hoping to find a Dementor they could launch themselves at (which would have been noble, but ultimately useless).

"Calm down, boys. Luna's just fine now. She wasn't in Azkaban after all," stated Molly, keen to shush everyone so she could hear what the memory-Longbottoms were saying.

"No. She was taken to our Dark Lord's hiding place and chucked in the dungeons instead," added Neville wryly. "But she did manage to escape, with the help of Harry. And Dobby."

Further explanation was halted as Neville's grandmother lifted her wand and waved it at the side table next to her. A large crystal bottle and two glasses appeared out of thin air (the Dol Amrothians were mightily impressed). Ignoring her grandson's excitable tone, she calmly decanted some of the deep amber liquid into each glass,

"I know very well who controls the Ministry now, young man," she began evenly. "I also know you are upset, and that things have been difficult this year; but you can't allow your emotions to rule you, nor let your imagination get the better of you. None of us can. We have to bide our time and wait for the right moment to strike. And, believe you me, that moment will come. As for young Luna Lovegood, she was only taken to bring a halt to her father's public support of Harry Potter, so it is highly likely that - if they wish to ensure Xenophilius' continued obedience - they won't harm so much as a hair on her head."

Another wave of her wand sent one of the glasses sailing across to memory-Neville, who ignored it until it started knocking itself against his temple.

"Now," continued the witch, "celebrations this Christmas might have been rather muted, what with all that's happening, but your friend would not like you to worry so much on her behalf. If you do, then you will simply be handing You Know Who and his ghastly minions the victory they already think they've won. If I know anything about the Lovegoods - which I like to think I do - then I can tell you that Luna would hate that. So, why don't you do something rebellious, like defying those horrid bullies by sitting back down and trying to enjoy what's left of your holidays? Honour Luna's wishes by drinking to her health, not by wallowing over-much about what may or may not be happening to her. The only person you'll hurt by doing that is yourself. Go on, now. That's my best Buttercup Brandy. Now that you're of age, you might as well have some."

Her words took the fight out of memory-Neville. Sagging in defeat, he snagged the glass out of the air, sank back into his armchair, and proceeded to sip his brandy.

"Tastes even worse than Anfalas wine," declared the real Neville, as his slightly younger self sprayed the contents of his glass all over the carpet. "Get ready, boys; Dobby's about to appear."

"Dobby?" enquired Elphir, watching Augusta Longbottom in fascination as she Conjured a towel out of thin air and set it to wiping her protesting grandchild's face before Banishing the brandy stains from her carpet.

"The house-elf," explained Neville. "The reason we're here."

Barely had he finished speaking when a sudden flash lit the living-room, alerting them to the presence of a third party. All eyes swung ahead to where a small creature, with huge ears and even bigger eyes, and draped in shiny green-and-red shorts, stood looking nervously up at memory-Neville. Dobby's tower of knitted bonnets was topped with a bauble-bedecked tea cosy, and it swayed dangerously on the elf's head. Gold-and-silver tinsel had been draped loosely around his neck, and he hopped from one (mismatched) sock-clad foot to another.

"Neville Longlegs!" squeaked the house-elf excitedly. "You will never guess what Dobby has heard, sir!"

"Longlegs?" asked Molly, throwing the real Neville a quizzical glance. He shrugged.

"Don't ask. I've told him a million times, but it's useless. Still, it could be worse. He calls Seamus 'Shameless'."

Elphir, Erchirion and Aglador stared at Dobby in awe. Halbarad, however, was studying the new arrival in boggle-eyed disbelief.

"That is an elf?" he managed to croak. "_That_ is an elf?"

"_He_," said Neville pointedly "is an elf. A house-elf, to be exact. Or he _was_ a house-elf. Dobby died during our war."

But Halbarad was beyond hearing. The ranger had approached Dobby in wide-eyed astonishment, then promptly froze when memory-Augusta's glass went flying into the air, and she jumped out of her chair with her wand in hand.

"Good heavens, young man!" barked the grim granny. Halbarad and Dobby jumped in unison as she stormed in their direction before stopping. Bright blue eyes swept the newcomer, and only after ten long seconds did she pocket her wand and waggle a bony finger instead, glowering angrily all the while. "What do you mean by appearing out of thin air, uninvited, and scaring the living daylights out of me? What if I had mistaken you for a Death Eater breaking into my house? I might have blasted you first and asked questions later. And then where would I be, with a dead body sprawled all over my nice clean carpet?"

The ranger, forgetting that she couldn't see him, paled significantly and stumbled backwards (as if the Witch-king himself was looming before him). "Forgive me, lady! I meant not to alarm you!"

"Dobby is sorry, Granny Longlegs!" squeaked the equally alarmed house-elf. "Dobby is not a bad, wicked Death Eater; Dobby just wanted to tell his Neville what he heard at Hogwarts. Dobby never meant to frighten his ancient ancestor."

"Ancient ancestor? I'm not dead yet, you young scallywag," she scowled, then added "though another fright like that might finish me off."

"It's all right Gran! Dobby's my friend from Hogwarts - you remember; the house-elf I said was being such a great help to the DA?"

Hearing himself described as Neville's friend sent the house-elf into raptures. He flew at memory-Neville and wrapped himself around his leg.

"Friend! Neville Longlegs said Dobby was his friend! And that Dobby was a great help to him. Oh, Dobby is _so_ happy!"

"Long_bottom_, Dobby," corrected memory-Neville in slight exasperation, as he tried (uselessly) to free himself.

"But Neville's bottom is _not_ long. His legs are," said the elf defiantly, before hugging one of the jean encased limbs even more tighty. "Oh, Dobby is very fortunate to have such good friends like Harry Potter, Harry Potter's Wheezy, and now Neville Longlegs. So very fortunate!"

And he burst into tears.

"There, there, Dobby," said the teenager, patting the tower of hats consolingly whilst redoubling his efforts to peel himself free. "Of course you're my friend."

This made Dobby cling on even harder and sob even louder. "You is as great as Harry Potter, Neville Longlegs, sir. Befriending Dobby and calling him a Great Help. Dobby is proud to be your friend!"

"Yes, yes. All right, that's quite enough," came memory-Augusta's no-nonsense tone. "If you would kindly detach yourself from my grandson's leg and calm yourself enough to tell us what brought you here, I would be very much obliged."

At the sound of her authoritarian voice, Dobby immediately freed himself from Neville. Augusta huffed at the sight of his slime-covered mien and fished a handkerchief from her pocket. In considerably softer tones, she offered it to the astounded house-elf.

"Here. Wipe your face, for pity's sake. Can't have you dripping all over the place now, can we?"

Dobby gazed up at her as if she had just offered him the key to her Gringotts vault. "You offer Dobby your own handkerchief? Oh, now we know where Neville Longlegs gets his great generosity from. Thank you, thank you, thank you, Granny Longlegs!"

For a moment, it looked as if Dobby was about to launch himself at her, but one warning glance and a sharp 'It's Long_bottom_' made him wisely reconsider.

Memory-Neville quickly distracted the house-elf from his forbidding granny by prompting him to reveal the reason for his visit.

"Is it one of the Muggle-borns? The Carrows haven't found them, have they?" He looked deeply worried by the possibility.

But Dobby shook his head, his bat-like ears flapping beneath the swaying tower of hats. "Oh no, sir! Dobby has been taking very good care of Neville Longlegs' friends, sir. The headmaster has no idea where they are, or that Dobby is feeding them."

"Right. Well, great work. Just be careful, will you? The Carrows know we're hiding them somewhere, and it's only a matter of time before Snape finds out what's happening with all the surplus food they have in the kitchen these days, but I'd rather delay that moment for as long as possible."

"Dobby is always careful, sir! It's why Dobby was able to hear what happened in Bad Carrow's bedroom."

Memory-Neville looked decidedly repulsed.

"Which bad Carrow are we talking about?"

"The short one, sir."

"That doesn't help me much, Dobby."

"The ugly one, sir."

"This could still go either way."

"The horrid one, sir. The nasty one who hurt your noble Longlegs face."

"Longbottom, Dobby. And you mean Alecto."

Dobby nodded energetically. "Yes, sir. Dobby was still cleaning Bad Carrow's chamber when she came back from breakfast, so Dobby had to hide under the bed, so she wouldn't see him. Bad Carrow gets angry if she catches anyone in her bedroom - even a house-elf. Especially a house-elf, sir. She used a torture curse on poor Winky once just because Winky came in to draw the curtains. But Winky didn't know Bad Carrow was there. Of course, sir, Winky was so happy to be treated like a proper house-elf again that she didn't complain once when Dobby was fixing her poor bleeding head."

The tiny elf shook his own head, his face a curious mixture of pity and recrimination.

"Anyway, sir, while Dobby was hiding under Bad Carrow's bed, Dobby saw her making a Floo call to someone. Dobby does not know who it was, sir, only that it was a man. And they were talking about Luna Lovegood! The man said she had arrived and was being kept in the cellar with 'the old one'. Dobby is sorry, sir, but they never mentioned who the 'old one' was. Then Bad Carrow laughed and said that ought to teach her traitorous father to toe the line, and if it didn't, they would start sending him pieces of her, starting with her eyes! Isn't that wonderful news, Neville Longlegs?"

Behind the sofa, Halbarad, Elphir, Erchirion and Aglador were staring at the wildly beaming elf in utter horror.

"Send her father her eyes? How can that possibly be wonderful?" croaked an ashen-faced Elphir.

"Because it meant Gran was right," supplied the real Neville. "Luna _was_ still alive and unhurt, and would remain that way as long as Xenophilius - her father - abandoned his pro-Harry stance and started printing their propaganda instead. Which he did. Immediately. I wasn't happy about it, but I didn't blame him, either. Luna's all he has left."

The memory-Longbottoms - upon hearing Dobby's news - beamed at each other in relief, having immediately realised the significance of it. They were clearly delighted. Which was more than could be said about their invisible audience; Halbarad was almost puce with indignation.

"So your enemies kidnapped children to make their parents bend to their will? Such deviousness! Such blatant dishonour!"

"You're not wrong. A lot of parents never saw their children again. And when the Death Eaters saw how well their tactics were working, they even tried it the other way about; kidnapping parents to make us kids at Hogwarts toe the line. Specifically, suspected members of the DA. They actually sent someone to my house to pick up Gran." Neville, relishing the memory of the vision he had seen in Galadriel's Mirror, grinned. "Idiots."

"What happened to her?" enquired Aglador, eyeing the tiny old woman in dismay.

"Dawlish turned up thinking he'd got an easy job and she thrashed the living daylights out of him," he chuckled, smiling at his grandmother fondly (she, pleased to see her memory-grandson as equally happy, was now offering the bearer of their good news a glass of Buttercup Brandy). "It'll be weeks before the healers deem him fit enough to be discharged."

"Weeks?"

"Well it takes time to turn a man back into a man after he's been Transfigured into a dartboard. Didn't help that Gran played a few rounds before she went on the run. The Ministry didn't come looking for Dawlish until later that evening, and they only discovered what had happened to him because he was bleeding profusely from his, erm, bullseye."

An explosion of laughter rocked the living room after he explained what a dartboard was (and exactly which part of Dawlish's anatomy had been the bullseye). The hilarity was only compounded by the sight of an ecstatic Dobby - overcome at being offered a beverage by 'Granny Longlegs' - throwing himself at her with such force that they both tumbled back into the armchair in a tangle of arms, legs and _very_ loud shouts of 'Get yourself the devil off my chest!' and 'Dobby has never, ever, _ever_ met a witch as great or as good as the ancient mistress! Dobby loves her!' And all the while, in the background, Neville's ancestors sang their bawdy Santa-song, competing with Celestina, who was still crooning away, having now reached the penultimate verse of her own masterpiece.

_"... Eleven Howlers howling_

_Ten Banshees wailing_

_Nine Hags a-cackling_

_Eight Doxy Droppings_

_Seven Ghouls a-groaning_

_Six Gnomes a-swearing_

_Five Fairy wings ..."_

The memory began to fade, and all six were soon leaving the sight of the armchair love-tackle, and memory-Neville rolling about his own seat in fits of laughter.

Deposited back into their tent, the merriment continued as Molly dipped into her knapsack and produced a bottle of Firewhiskey (which she point-blank refused to let Neville try, deeming it 'a step too far after so much wine'). Elphir, Erchirion and Aglador spoke with wonder of what they had seen (Halbarad was far too busy bending double over the table, slapping it with his right hand as he gasped 'Three-Quarters-House-Elf, indeed!' between fits of uncontrollable laughter).

Thinking him either very strange (for Dobby was a full house-elf. What else would he be?) or very drunk, Neville simply ignored him in favour of a refill of the now-very-delicious Anfalas wine.

"To Dobby! A good friend and a free elf!" he cried, and everyone lifted their goblets.

"To Dobby!" they echoed, and soon everyone was cheerfully downing their wine or Firewhiskey (and, in some cases, both).

"To Mistress Augusta; may her aim ever be true and her wrath ever amusing!" declared Aglador.

"But not when aimed at oneself," muttered Halbarad. His comment was lost amidst another round of noisy slurping.

"To Dawlish," announced Elphir, chuckling so much he could barely speak. "May his family jewels be shredded beyond the repair of even magic!"

Wine and Firewhiskey were sprayed along both sides of the table as everyone spat out their drinks (before they choked to death). Even Molly laughed into her goblet.

And thus they celebrated their victory well into the morning.

But - unbeknownst to Neville - things were about to take a turn for the very bizarre, and they would only get worse from there.

_Much_ worse …

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Author's Note_: A bit gap-fillery, and it needs another proof-read or two, but everyone deserved a bit of fun after all the fighting they've been doing over the weeks. And they'll need the time to recuperate, given what's coming up …

I'd like to take this opportunity to thank all of my readers, particularly those who have left review and constructive feedback over the last year. It's always such a thrill for me to know that something I'm writing is entertaining people so much. Hope you had a Merry Christmas, and I wish you all a very Happy (and healthy) New Year :o)

Kara's Aunty ;)


	46. A Little Diversion

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. and Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

**Credit: **en-wikia, hp & lotr wikias, Tolkien Gateway, forodrim dot org/daeron/md_khuzdul and - wait for it - TUCKBOROUGH DOT NET! Yes folks, it's back online under the name of **thainsbook dot net**. Happy, happy days!

**NOTE:** Study scene revised on 21/01/2013..

**Chapter 46**

* * *

_Mirkwood_

_Third Age, 10th March 3019_

In retropect, mused Dumbledore, appearing at some random spot in Mirkwood in the vain hope they would magically stumble into Radagast the Brown was not the best idea he had ever had.

Having Apparated into the middle of an Orc camp, and been promptly surrounded by all four hundred of its blade wielding, extremely vicious and very smelly inhabitants (who rudely ignored their polite greetings), Dumbledore and Fred quickly raised their wands.

"I don't imagine there is any point in asking you to direct us to the home of Radagast the Brown?" queried Dumbledore pleasantly of one huge uruk, who had stepped to the fore of the snarling orcs and was currently brandishing a long, crudely wrought sword their way.

The uruk - staring at them as if all his Christmases had come at once - opened his mouth wide (giving both wizards a smashing view of his sharp yellow teeth) and bellowed _"Manflesh!"_ at the top of his lungs.

"That'll be a 'no', then," observed Fred as the dinner rush started.

Within seconds, they were assailed on all sides as hungry orcs and uruk-hai surged forward. Dispensing with the formalities, Dumbledore went straight for the spectacular; thrusting Fred behind him, he waved his wand in a sweeping circle, and fire shot from its tip into the heaving masses. A volley of screams followed as orcs and uruk-hai leapt away from the pair in shock and pain. Taking advantage of their new enemies' surprise, they ploughed their way past their yelling foes intending to make their escape across the clearing and into the trees. But more orcs surged up behind them, and those ahead who had leapt out of the path of their burning comrades now pushed their way forward, firing arrows as they ran. Fred, casting frantically, had to Shield both of them whilst Dumbledore continued to incinerate anyone stupid enough to get in the wizards' way.

Soon, burning orcs and uruk-hai were running blindly about, screaming in pain as they batted furiously at their bodies in an attempt to smother the flames. Some threw themselves upon the ground and began rolling about, causing bracken to smoulder; others ran headlong into trees, setting fire to low-hanging branches. Within minutes, flames licked across them, then up the tall boles; soon, the very trees themselves were alight.

The confusion gave Dumbledore and Fred ample opportunity to break free from the enemy host, although - even as they dashed amidst the trees - the sound of pursuit was never far behind them.

"This might be a good time to Apparate to safety, don't you think?" yelled Fred, firing Stinging hexes into the raging crowd at their back.

"This might be a good time to think of somewhere safe enough to Apparate to, don't you think?" returned Dumbledore as he ran, reluctant for them to start Disapparating only to find themselves reappearing in yet another trouble spot. At this rate, they'd be dead again before dinnertime.

So much for second chances.

Fred, however, had other ideas.

"Well, if that's all that's stopping us!" Without elaborating, he shouted: "Couldn't help me create a distraction, could you Albus?"

"What are you planning?"

"To get us somewhere safe so we can regroup," said the teenager with a wink as he fired multiple spells into the horde at their heels They hit several of the lead orcs and uruk-hai, whose arms jerked spastically to each side as their swords started involuntarily hacking at their comrades. The pursuing mass behind them stumbled to a halt in confusion, then anger, at the thought of their brethren betraying them.

"I don't recall you mentioning any such places when we were back in the mountain," remarked Albus as he paused mid-flight to eye the savage in-fighting which had broken out amidst their enemies a hundred yards or so away. He suddenly recalled Fred's comment about 'a cool village of houses built into hillsides'. "Apart from what might have been the Shire. But that is out of the question for two reasons. One: we cannot Apparate such a great distance any more because the power of Manwë's gift has now dissipated; and two: it would take us too far away from where we need to be at present even if we could."

"It's not the Shire. I did see other places, you know," said Fred.

"Then why didn't you mention them earlier?"

"Because a) you only asked me if I'd seen the elven settlement in Mirkwood, which I hadn't, and b) mostly everywhere else I _did_ see wasn't on my list of places to avoid."

"And the Shire was?"

"Nah. I just thought a house in a hill was too cool not to mention."

The fighting uruk-hai (and orcs) had, by now, desisted with their internal arguments (having slain the leaders with the enchanted swords) and were now in hot pursuit of Dumbledore and Fred once more.

Dumbledore looked to his young companion. "This would be a rather excellent moment for that distraction you mentioned," he stated calmly.

Needing no further encouragement, the redhead aimed his wand at a beech tree and fired. There was an enormous _crack!_ when his Blasting Charm hit it full force. Bark and splinters shot everywhere, as Fred's Blasting Charm gouged a large chunk out of the beech, but it was not enough to fell it.

Another few might though.

Unfortunately, they had not the time to hang around and mount a coordinated attack on the poor, innocent tree. Already orcs and uruk-hai were closing the distance fast, and they were hungrier than ever. Arrows began to fly their way, so that both would soon have to turn tail and begin ploughing through the forest again. Fred had his hands full Shielding them. Fortunately, however, Dumbledore had not been one of the most powerful wizards of his time for nothing. _He_ did not need to fire a few spells - one was more than enough.

_More_ than enough indeed. Raising his wand at the beech, he fired a Blasting Charm so powerful that it shore the tree almost to the roots, creating a terrific, ear-splitting _crack!_ and sending it sailing backwards towards the unlucky creatures pursuing them.

"Aaaarrrggh!" screamed the terrified uruk at the fore of the charge. He didn't even have time to stumble to a halt and turn before the jagged edge of the beech smashed into him, killing him instantly. Branches cracked against other trees as the beech sailed through the forest, and those that did not lashed violently at the orcs who had frozen in horror.

Taking advantage of their enemies' temporary distraction, Fred lunged forward, grabbed Dumbledore by the purple clad arm, and laid the older man's hand on his coat sleeve.

"Hold on tight! Somewhere safe coming up!" he cried. Turning on the spot, he Disapparated, taking both men away in the blink of an eye.

**o0o**

_Imladris_

_Third Age, 10th March 3019_

Bilbo Baggins was all a-flutter as he hobbled his way across his chamber, searching for his red weskit (the one with the shiny gold buttons which the beauteous Arwen herself had made for him on his last birthday).

Where the devil had he put it?

Huffing in irritation, he headed for the small closet in his sleeping quarters, rummaging through it for the third time, before checking once more under the pile of clothing he had thrown on his bed. Having no luck there, he then bent down to check under the bed itself.

"Bother, bother bother!" he grumbled, leaning one hand on the mattress and the other on the bedside cabinet as he slowly pulled himself back onto his ancient feet.

Where _was_ it? He had definitely had it last week, because he'd worn it in honour of Elrond's daughter when she sang in the Hall of Fire that Tuesday. He still had it on when he returned to his room later that evening (why wouldn't he?), and he distinctly recalled removing it and setting it upon the settle by the window before retiring. But where it had disappeared to thereafter, he did not know. Certainly the maid who tidied his room had not removed it for laundering, for he had checked with her that morning, and so his favourite weskit's exact whereabouts remained a mystery.

He threw the now-empty settle a look of great consternation, having already checked on it, behind it, and even under it.

"Well?" he asked of it accusingly. "You haven't swallowed it, have you?"

The settle remained mutinously silent.

"Dratted nuisance!" he said, scowling as he turned his back on the settle and hobbled away. He'd just have to wear the green weskit instead. Not that there was anything wrong with the green one; it was beautifully tailored and had nice shiny buttons too (silver), but he had _so_ wanted to wear the red one, for it was a Very Special Occasion. And what might this occasion be?

Why, there was a dwarf in Rivendell!

And not just any dwarf - Nárdor son of Nárbor, one of Durin's folk from the Blue Mountains. And a cousin, no less (thrice removed on his father's side, and fourteen times removed on his mother's), to his long-dead friend, Thorin Oakenshield!

What marvellous days he lived in! First a witch, and now one of Thorin's kin in Rivendell. True, there had been dwarves in Rivendell late the previous year, when the fate of the Ring was being decided, but that was a rare event even then, and he had not spent as much time with them as he would have liked to as the majority of them had departed after the Council of Elrond. Dwarves simply did not visit elven havens. Besides, Bilbo had been so busy spending as much time with Frodo as possible before his nephew left, perhaps never to return, that there was little left to share with Gloin, other than at meal times.

But _now_. Well, _that_ was a different kettle of fish! Nárdor and two companions had arrived mere days after the wonderful Augusta left with Glorfindel.

"To bring news of assaults on our lands," he had revealed the evening before at dinner. "Thrice in the last year we have fought off Orcish attacks. We believe they were heading for Lindon."

This news, Bilbo learned from Nárdor, had left a rather stunned Elrond deeply worried that the Enemy was trying to cut off the Elves' route to the Grey Havens, and thus their passage to Valinor. "Though there is little he can do about it at present, given that his realm is also being watched by spies. We ourselves were attacked not far from the River Bruinen, and might not have made it across were it not for the border guards of this land."

As alarming as Nárdor's tidings were, Bilbo was not overly worried. Rivendell was protected by Elrond's magic, as long as the One Ring remained unclaimed by Sauron. As for the Grey Havens, a messenger had already been despatched there from the Blue Mountains to warn them of the danger. Nárdor's chief reason for coming to Rivendell was to alert the Imladris' elves to be on their guard should any of them decide to leave Middle Earth ere the fate of the world had been decided; thereafter he would resume his journey to Dale, and the Lonely Mountain, to visit kin.

With his news now delivered, and the dwarves leaving the next day (despite Elrond's grave warning of the danger of attempting passage by the Misty Mountains), Bilbo was expecting Nárdor and the dwarves' company for a light lunch any moment now. To his chagrin, he had not been able to order quite the spread from the kitchens he would have preferred for his guests (many of the staff had now been seconded out in support of the border guards), and so he would have to entertain them with little more than a few morsels.

Plucking the green weskit from amidst the pile of clothing on his bed, Bilbo donned it before dragging the painted screen a few inches to the right (thereby hiding his untidiness from curious eyes soon to be situated in the larger living quarters). Task accomplished, he puffed his way to the cabinet, collected his walking stick, and shuffled slowly around the screen, through his 'living room', and on to the terrace beyond, where he looked at the laden table ruefully.

Dozens of beef, ham and tomato sandwiches graced a silver platter; a terrine of chicken and vegetable soup sat steaming invitingly behind them, accompanied by a basket of fresh bread rolls and four deep bowls with gleaming spoons; a whole lamb shank, still in its roasting tray, surrounded by roast and boiled potatoes, parsnips and tantalising gravy, took pride of place in the middle of the table; half a tray of mushrooms fried in butter were also on display (Bilbo had eaten the other half - to make sure they were fit for purpose, of course - and then arranged the remainder over the tray in such an artistic fashion as to make it look like they were _supposed_ to be that far apart); there were jars of boiled eggs and pickled onions; three platefuls of cakes there were too, each piled so high with apple tarts, custard pies, and slices upon slices of jam roly-poly (his own recipe) that they swayed dangerously in the light breeze. The elves had also left a huge teapot and crockery, with milk, sugar and slices of lemon.

Eyeing it despondently, Bilbo shook his head.

Barely enough to feed the average tweenager!

Still, Bilbo was not one to be ungrateful, and would gladly make do as best he could. He doubted the dwarves would be disappointed anyway - whatever the hobbit served them was bound to more welcoming to them than their travel rations had been.

As he was contemplating the meagre provender, there came a loud _crack!_

Taken by surprise, the elderly hobbit gave a little jump of fright.

In the name of the Shire! Why couldn't dwarves learn to knock at doors politely with their hands, instead of rapping at them with axe handles?

Turning (slowly) on his heel, he made for the living room, and thus the door; but barely had he cleared the balcony door when he froze, for it was no contingent of dwarves who had disturbed him after all. Instead, he found two men standing with their backs to him, talking with each other in low voices. One, an old man with long snowy hair, wore a purple robe with _moving moons and stars! _Beside him, looking very much like an upside-down carrot (Bilbo absently wondered if the elves had sent up a plate of those very vegetables to go with the lamb shank), was a red-haired youth wearing a long, shockingly green scaly coat.

"I commend you on your choice of destinations, Fred," said the older man in a comforting baritone. "It certainly appears safer, and far more comfortable, than anywhere we have visited yet. Perhaps now you'd care to tell me exactly where we are?"

The other man - Fred - replied in more youthful tones as he gazed around curiously. "To tell you the truth, I have no idea. I remember seeing Mrs Longbottom here when we were looking at the Window of Arda. I think she was with someone, but I never saw them."

"Is that so? And here I thought you were too busy admiring Varda's pretty maidservant to remember much of anything other than the danger zones."

"That's what you get for thinking then, isn't it Albus?" quipped Fred, eliciting a chuckle from his friend.

"Quite so. But joking aside, we need to establish our location, and see if there is anyone who might help us find Radagast."

Bilbo's jaw hit the carpet at the same time as his tiny walking stick (though it did not bounce quite as much). He watched in astonishment as the upside-down carrot - _Fred_ (what an odd name) - wandered over to his writing desk, and the elder gent inspected his bookcase. As _Albus _inspected his bookcase.

Hmm. Why was that name vaguely familiar?

Oh, what did it matter? If his ears were not very much mistaken (which they never were) then they had been in the presence of Elbereth herself! In Valinor! Not only that, _but they knew the Green Witch by name!_

It could only mean one thing.

Dwarvish guests (and weskit) completely forgotten, he clapped his hands in delight. The sound alerted the two new arrivals to his presence.

"By the stars!" Bilbo breathed as they froze for a moment.

Abandoning their investigation of his quarters they suddenly spun around to face him, caution etched on their faces. The youth had raised a stick his way - a magic staff just like Augusta's! - but lowered it upon spotting the tottering old hobbit, and his freckled face relaxed into a grin. The older man offered him a polite nod, his blue eyes sweeping the hobbit appraisingly over the top of his spectacles. Beneath his beard, Bilbo saw his mouth widen in a smile, then open to speak. But the excited hobbit beat him to it.

"You are from the Land of Eng. Eng-ish Wizards in my own living room!" he declared, hobbling their way at super-speed, sans walking stick. He beamed up at them, absolutely thrilled to meet acquaintances of his good friend, Augusta Longbottom.

They stared down at him in surprise, and their eyebrows raised markedly when he added:

"And not just any Wizards at that. Bumbledoor! The great Albus Bumbledoor in person, no less!" he gushed, as realisation dawned. "Of course, you are supposed to be dead, if I recall my conversation with Augusta correctly; yet here you are, alive and well and smack in the middle of Rivendell, and looking quite magnificent, if I might say! No doubt resurrected by the very Valar themselves, if you've met Varda. The Queen of the Valar! Well, it's not too surprising - they're always resurrecting the dead!"

In fact, they were not. It had happened a mere handful of times, and only in extraordinary circumstances, but Bilbo was too ecstatic to let a little thing like facts bother him.

"So you know something of our world's history from Augusta Longbottom?" asked Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling down at Bilbo.

"A great deal! She told me all about your war, and your moving staircases, and those marvellous talking paintings. She even used magic to make me the most splendid of chairs!"

Suddenly remembering his manners, Bilbo blushed. "Oh - but do forgive me! I haven't even introduced myself yet! Well, I shall rectify that now!"

Practically hopping with enthusiasm (no mean feat for a hobbit of his age), he bowed smartly.

"My name is Bilbo Baggins, a Hobbit, and I am most _definitely_ at your service and that of both your families!" he gushed.

"Good afternoon, Bilbo. I am Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, and my young friend here is Fred Gideon Weasley," announced the older man, reaching out to shake the hobbit's hand.

"Otherwise known as Dumbledore the Deep Purple and Fred the Red," added Fred with a grin as he shook Bilbo's hand in turn. Once he let go, the hobbit stared at his hand in awe (wondering if he might now be capable of shooting magic from his fingertips).

"Did I hear you say that we are in Rivendell?" asked Dumbledore conversationally.

Bilbo, appearing a little confused, nodded. "Well, yes. Surely you know that, or how else did you find it?"

"Apparition," explained Fred, who elaborated when the hobbit frowned. "That's magical transport from one place to another."

"Of course! A-partition," said Bilbo knowingly (completely mispronouncing the word). "Elrond was describing it to me only last Tuesday. Augusta took him to Isengard using that very same magic, you see. It sounds _very_ interesting."

Fred gave him an odd look. "Er, okay. Anyway, I saw an image of your house in the Window of Arda, so I brought us here. Hope you don't mind, only we were in a spot of bother and had to make a quick getaway."

"Of course not! I don't mind you coming here. Not at all! Any friend of Augusta's is a friend of mine. My home is your home, and all that. But might I ask what sort of bother you were in? And why you are searching for Radagast the Brown?"

"You know him?" asked Dumbledore a little urgently. "It's imperative that we find him as soon as possible."

"Ah. I don't know him personally, but I have heard of him, and know that he lives either in or on the edges of Mirkwood forest. But that is a very dangerous place, more so now than ever. I wouldn't advise you to travel there any time soon."

"We know of the danger; we were just attacked there by a party of orcs, which is why Fred brought us to the safety of your charming house. Nevertheless we must return, and soon; our mission is of vital importance. But it would make things significantly easier if we knew exactly _where_ to return to - specifically, where Radagast lives."

Chagrined, Bilbo shook his head. "I am terribly sorry, but I have absolutely no idea where he lives." Their faces registered disappointment. Bilbo knew how they felt; he would dearly have liked to help them.

But wait! Perhaps he still could!

"Oh, but I do know someone who might be able to help you!" he cried, and was pleased to see their faces light up in hope. "Elrond might know!"

"Elrond?" enquired Dumbledore.

Nodding, Bilbo elaborated. "He's the Lord of Imladris, that is, Rivendell. He's an elf, you know - one of the oldest and most learned in Middle-earth. He has an office simply stuffed with maps and books of lore. I could take you to him, if you'd like."

He was met with two beaming smiles.

"That would be very kind of you, Bilbo," replied Dumbledore.

Delighted to be of some use after all, Bilbo clapped his hands together in pleasure.

Hmm. He oughtn't to have been able to do that at all, now that he thought about it. Where the devil was his walking stick?

Huffing in irritation, he glanced over his shoulder and saw it lying on the carpet near the veranda, and was just about to shuffle all the way back over to retrieve it when it suddenly picked itself up and flew towards him.

"Oh, thank you so much," he said, watching it for a few seconds in deep fascination as it hovered in the air beside him.

"You're most welcome," said Dumbledore genially as the hobbit finally plucked it from the air. "Now, shall we?"

"Of course, of course, dear gentlemen! Please, do follow me!"

With that, he led them (slowly) out his front door on to the terrace, and up and round the many beautifully arched landings, all the while feeling very important indeed.

**o0o**

"Wizards from the Land of Eng!" called out Bilbo cheerily, pointing behind him every time he, Dumbledore and Fred passed an elf. And every time, the graceful beings did a double-take, many of them gazing at the newcomers in shock and astonishment. One elf, a blond male, assessed them quickly but intently before breaking away from the main crowd and dashing away, no doubt to inform his lord of their presence.

Dumbledore smiled at each of the remaining elves benignly.

"Good afternoon," he said, nodding politely, though every last one was far too busy staring at him, Fred, and both of their astonishing robes to respond. A pair of elf-women exited a chamber directly ahead and turned their way, freezing on the spot when they spotted the extraordinary entourage of wildly bouncing elderly hobbit (Bilbo was beyond excitement) and two oddly attired strangers.

"Good afternoon, ladies," said Dumbledore once more, not in the least offended by their incredulous expressions.

"Nice day for it, eh?" winked Fred, flashing them a smile as he passed; one of them gave a frightened sort of giggle before they both fled back into the chamber.

"We are not in England any more, Fred," commented the older wizard mildly. "And though we both know you mean no harm, the ladies here might not _quite_ understand you sense of humour."

The redhead sighed. "Fair enough. I was only trying to make friends, though. We don't have too many of them in this world yet, you know."

Actually, with the exception of Bilbo, they had no friends at all in Middle-earth (that knew they were alive again).

"We have each other at least, which surely counts for something."

"True. But they're prettier than you. No offence."

Beside him, Dumbledore smothered a chuckle.

And so it continued as they walked down the terrace, through arched hallways, up staircases and down corridors. Word of their procession had somehow gone before them, and elves began to pour out of rooms and halls to witness the new arrivals, many gaping in astonishment. Only their hobbit guide seemed unperturbed.

In fact, he was having an absolutely smashing time of it.

"No need for weapons - they're friends of the Green Witch!" he would call if anyone so much as touched a sword handle. "Make way, make way! Make way for Dumbledore the Deep Purple and Fred the Red!" he cried when corridors became too crowded. "No time for explanations, gentleman. We're off to see the Lord Elrond on Very Important Wizard's business!"

The esteem in which Bilbo was held by his elven friends must have been great indeed, noted Dumbledore as they passed curious elf after curious elf, for not once was he challenged by any of them, and so it was that, by the time they reached the corridor leading to the Lord of the Last Homely House's study, they had almost managed the journey without any demands for an explanation of their identities and business (though with a rather large and very curious entourage in tow).

Almost.

Emerging from a corner at the end of the long corridor was an elf dressed in blue. He hurried their way, long hair flowing down his back, his face a picture of wariness.

"Halt! Who goes forth there?" he called out, coming to a stop mere feet away.

Before either Dumbledore or Fred could answer, Bilbo spoke up.

"Don't panic, Finthwael. These are my friends, arrived from Mirkwood not fifteen minutes ago. And before that Valinor itself! They have actually met Varda - can you believe it!"

A series of gasps sounded from behind them, but Finthwael was not so easily impressed.

"Master Baggins," he began, addressing the hobbit with a tinge of exasperation, "that is not possible. The border guards would have carried Lord Elrond word of their arrival in our lands before they even set foot in our courtyard. He has had no such report, however, and no new arrivals have been greeted upon crossing the bridge. Indeed, were it not for Lindir's forewarning seconds ago, your companions might have crept up on us unexpectedly."

Beside him, Dumbledore could almost feel Fred frowning.

"'Crept up'? Charming. You make us sound like a pair of Acromatula."

Finthwael frowned.

"Giant spiders," supplied Dumbledore helpfully, putting a warning hand on Fred's arm.

Finthwael shivered, before returning his attention to Bilbo.

"You say they have come from Valinor itself. A bold claim indeed. Tell me how you know this."

"Well, because they told me of course! And I for one believe them. They are personally acquainted with the Green Witch herself, you know!"

"As is Saruman the Fallen," pointed out Finthwael, "yet that does not make him her friend. Nor ours. You cannot escort strangers through Imladris based on little more than a few moments acquaintance."

Deciding that Bilbo had explained as much as he was able to, and that it was time to intervene personally, Dumbledore stepped forward. "Perhaps we might show you a token, as proof of our friendship and our good intentions?" he suggested.

Finthwael thought about this for a second or two, then nodded his consent.

"That would be acceptable."

Slowly pulling the travelling pack out of his pocket, so that Finthwael would not think he was reaching for a weapon, Dumbledore Enlarged it to its normal size and had Fred hold it open as he Summoned something from within its depths; it was a delicate silver flask shaped rather like a teardrop. Upon it was a single rune inscribed, similar in form to the number six, though the stem sloped more to the right and the end curve did not quite meet the descending one. The rune was altogether more shapely, elegant and unique than any form of orthography he had ever seen, be it Roman, Mermish, or any Muggle or Wizarding script as a whole.

Dumbledore passed it to the stony-faced elf.

"Varda kindly supplied Fred and I with this, among other things, for our journey. I do believe it bears her particular symbol."

Finthwael's face was a picture of stunned shock. "'Tis a Tengwar Quenya symbol," he breathed, looking from the flask to Dumbledore, then back to the flask again. "It means 'starlight'. You were given this by Elbereth Gilthoniel herself?"

"Yes. A gift from her friend - I believe the lady's name was Nienna. Forgive me if I mispronounced it. We never met her personally."

"But we did meet Manwë. Nice man with a sapphire wand. You've heard of him, right?"

A reverent hush fell on the crowd behind them as elves gazed at them in wonder.

"Well, if that's all dear boy, we'll be off to see Elrond!" declared Bilbo, taking advantage of Finthwael's momentary speechlessness to push his way past the much taller being, though it wasn't long before the elf found his voice again.

"But Master Baggins, I have yet to formally announce your guests to Lord Elrond!"

Barely had he finished his sentence when another tall figure in a plush burgundy robe with gold trim rounded the corner. On his head was a silver circlet, and his very carriage screamed confidence and elegance.

"Peace, Finthwael. I have heard enough. Any friend of the Green Witch is welcome in Imladris - have I not already said this? You may now consider our guests announced. Allow me to see to their comfort from henceforth."

"As you wish, lord," said Finthwael with a bow, before (reluctantly) returning the flask to Dumbledore (who had to practically yank it from the elf's fevered grip). Turning, he ushered the curious crowd back down the corridor, leaving Dumbledore, Fred and Bilbo alone in Elrond's presence.

"So, Master Baggins," began the stately elf, addressing the hobbit, yet not taking his fathomless grey eyes from Dumbledore's twinkling blue ones, "adventure has found you again. One cannot leave you for longer than five minutes ere you are surrounded by Wizards."

Looking very pleased with himself, Bilbo nodded. "And a Witch. Don't forget the Witch."

An expression of amusement flitted across Elrond's face as he gazed briefly at the hobbit.

"I do not believe it would be possible to forget her, even were I to try."

Dumbledore chuckled. "You couldn't. Augusta Longbottom is a very memorable person. Even as a student she was precocious."

Grey eyes fixed on him once again, and Dumbledore was struck by the age and intelligence therein.

"You know the lady so well?"

"I was her teacher."

Dark eyebrows rose in surprise, so he elaborated.

"Permit me to introduce myself. I am Albus Dumbledore, former headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardy. This young man here -" he indicated Fred with a wave of his hand "- is Fred Weasley."

The name seemed to mean something to their companion, for he scrutinised the young man carefully.

"Weasley? I know that name."

"I'm not surprised. My reputation usually precedes me," said Fred with a cocky grin.

"Then it pains me to disappoint you; the name I have heard in connection only with the Lady Molly, who is guardian to the Lady Augusta's grandson, Neville Longbottom."

Fred feigned disappointment that he wasn't as well known as his own mother (yet), eliciting a smile from the elf.

"I am certain that your own valour shall be known to one and all soon enough, Fred son of Weasley. Until such time, allow me to introduce myself also. I am Elrond, Lord of Imladris, which is also known also as Rivendell in the Common Speech. I must apologise to you both for your reception thus far in my halls; Finthwael is a little too earnest at times, and ought to have known that any friend of Bilbo's is ever welcome in Imladris. Yet you will bear him no ill will, I am certain; you are both undoubtedly aware that Middle-earth currently finds itself in a state of war, and in war we must all be cautious to whom we open our doors lest the Enemy gains footing across our threshold."

"There's nothing to forgive. Fred and I both know exactly what you mean," Dumbledore reassured him.

"_Exactly_ what you mean," added Fred, thinking of Scabbers with distaste.

"Then shall we adjourn to my study? As pleasant as the corridor is, we may talk in more comfort there."

"By all means," agreed Dumbledore with a nod of his silver head, and soon he and Fred were following their gracious host. Even before they rounded the corner Dumbledore heard the sound of excited voices, both musical and gruff, emanating from within.

"Ah. How remiss of me. I was deep in discussion with Master Nárdor ere Lindir advised me of your arrival; another fruitless attempt to persuade him to delay his journey to the Lonely Mountain, I fear. It is simply too dangerous at present. Nevertheless I must try, though I shall now have to postpone the attempt until later. Lindir may show him the gardens whilst we talk."

Bilbo chortled. "Dwarves don't have much use for gardens, Elrond. As it is, they have an appointment with me for luncheon, so it seems I am destined to take them off your hands, for the moment."

The hobbit paused in thought, then looked up at Dumbledore and Fred wistfully.

"I had hoped to hear more about your adventures, but I can't disappoint my guests."

However, at the mention of dwarves, the visiting wizards exchanged a look.

"Did you say dwarves?" asked Fred.

Bilbo nodded.

"Then perhaps you will be able to both keep your appointment _and _learn more of our 'adventures'," smiled Dumbledore as they drew nearer the study. Looking over the hobbit to Elrond (which was satisfyingly easy) he said: "Do you have any objection to Nárdor remaining for a few minutes? I have some news that will be of great interest to his people in particular. Thereafter, Fred can Apparate him to the Starkhorn whilst we speak privately."

"The Starkhorn? In Rohan?"

Good question. Dumbledore didn't know for certain; though Draulag had mentioned 'straw heads' while they were there, and Rohan was the only land of note where the majority of the population fit that description.

"I believe so."

"I should dearly like to Apparate to the Starkhorn!" announced Bilbo hopefully.

One look at the frail old hobbit told Dumbledore enough: Apparition might just be the end of him. But perhaps a Portkey? Though not exactly comfortable, it was a far less unpleasant method of transport to the uninitiated.

"Multiple Side-along Apparitions are dangerous to the inexperienced," he said diplomatically; the hobbit looked crestfallen. "A Portkey should be safer."

"I should dearly like to Portkey to the Starkhorn!" exclaimed a now-thrilled Bilbo.

"Then I have no objections," said Elrond, looking greatly intrigued by this new revelation.

Pleased that they were about to resolve at least one injustice they had discovered so far, the two wizards followed Elrond and Bilbo the remaining way into a beautiful room lined with colourful tapestries, and tall shelves of books upon a dais to the left. Light spilled into the room from balcony windows, though the doors leading onto it were closed, and the large desk nearby was further illuminated by candlelight.

Standing to one side was the elf whom they had seen leaving to notify Elrond of their arrival - Lindir. He watched in exasperation as a short being in a waist-length thick leather coat with bushy brown hair stomped up and down the study, complaining about being called in for an audience with his host only to be rebuffed in favour of unexpected arrivals.

"You were not rebuffed, Master Dwarf! Merely …"

"Rebuffed, I tell you! Rebuffed! Mayhap my safety is not as important to your lord as he implies!"

Lost for words, the blond elf looked toward someone seated at the desk, his expression clearly calling for aid.

"Were that so he would not have asked you for a second interview to help you see to it, Nárdor son of Nárbor." The beautiful, silvery voice held a note of gentle rebuke for the huffy dwarf, who had stopped in his tracks to gaze at its owner. "Do not be so quick to take offence at advice delayed, particularly when you have already made it clear that you have no intention of accepting it, despite our very best intentions."

The dwarf's mouth thinned momentarily under his bushy beard, and then he sighed in defeat. "Very well, lass. I shall speak no more of rebuffs where they were not intended."

"I am glad to hear it," stated Elrond as he entered the study with wizards and hobbit in tow. "Fortunately, I have brought the cause of our interruption with me so that you may see I was not called away for no reason. Nárdor son of Nárbor, allow me to introduce to you Albus Dumbledore and Fred Weasley, Istari visitors from …"

Elrond paused for the briefest of moments, as if he was deciding what the dwarf might best accept. 'Beyond the stars' might be a bit hard to swallow.

"From the Land of Eng," supplied Bilbo helpfully. "It's in the extreme North, you know."

"The Land of Eng? I have never heard of it," stated Nárdor, appraising the visitors with suspicious brown eyes. "Nor of any Wizards with such names."

"That's all right. We've never heard of you either," said Fred airily. "We've heard of dwarves of course, but they're smaller than you, and usually float about with golden wings and harps."

He made a show of peeking behind Nárdor's back for aforementioned wings (and any stray musical instruments that might be lurking about). Nárdor scowled.

"Nope. Nothing there."

"Wings are for birds, not Dwarves," growled Nárdor. "What need have we to fly when we have two perfectly sturdy legs to carry us wherever we may wish to go?"

"Oh, I like the idea of a flying Dwarf!" exclaimed Bilbo. "Just imagine how much quicker - and safer - the journey to the Lonely Mountain might have been if Balin and Dwalin, Oin and Gloin, Bifur, Bofur and Bombur, Dori, Nori and Ori, Fil and Kili and Thorin had had wings!"

"Quicker, maybe. But safer?" Nárdor shook his hairy head. "Nay. Smaug would only have had finer sport hunting them through the air, and they would not have had the power of fire at their command to fight him off. Your quest would have failed, Master Baggins. Let us be grateful instead that my kind are born with their feet planted firmly on the ground, as they ought to be!"

Turning his attention back to Dumbledore and Fred, he added: "Wings or nay, any friend of Bilbo Baggins is a friend of mine, regardless of where he hails from." He gave them a curt nod.

Lindir, however, was still staring at them with wide eyes.

"Yet more Istari from other realms in Imladris Fair? Not that I object," he added hastily, offering Dumbledore a look of apology. "Unless you have an unnatural love of tea."

Delicate laughter floated towards the newcomers from the corner of the desk, and both turned to find the most glorious lady rising to greet them. Her gown was a waterfall of delicate green which whispered across the floor in her wake. Her grey eyes held a glimmer of starlight, her dark hair hung like silk down her back and was artfully pulled away from her stunning face with the aid of rows of tiny silvery gems, showing off her delicately pointed ears.

"Well met, friends of the Green Witch. You are most welcome here. This tea-loathing individual is Lindir, our resident minstrel -" she indicated the elf with a shapely hand "- who is, at times, a little unguarded with his thoughts." The blond smiled apologetically. "And I am Arwen, daughter of your host Elrond Half-Elven."

"And I'm in love," mumbled Fred, gazing at her in appreciation.

"You wouldn't be the first," commented Bilbo matter-of-factly. "But unfortunately for you, the lady is already betrothed to the heir of Isildur."

"Typical," said Fred, watching as Bilbo gave the elleth a creaky little bow (she smiled indulgently). "All the good ones are always taken."

Shrugging, he offered her his hand, which she looked at in confusion.

"I ought to have forbidden all mortals under the age of ninety from ever entering Imladris," commented Elrond, as Fred gallantly took Arwen's hand in his own and brought it to his lips in a chaste kiss. The gesture elicited a tinkling laugh from her. "I have never known an Elf to charm her in the manner Men do."

"Then you'll be happy to learn I'm well over one hundred years old," quipped Dumbledore.

Wizard and elf shared an amused glance before Dumbledore tugged his younger friend away from their host's daughter by his coat sleeve.

"If you are quite finished alarming the poor lady, we have business to attend to."

"I didn't alarm her," protested Fred. He glanced at Arwen and asked: "Did I?"

"Not at all," she replied, still smiling. "I think you most charming. As will your future bride, of that I have no doubt."

'As will your future bride', meaning 'anyone but me'. Fred got the message loud and clear.

Still, at least she thought he was charming.

Pleased by the compliment (gracious in defeat), he conjured her a bouquet of sweet red roses out of thin air (Bilbo and Nárdor were amazed) and grinned Dumbledore's way as she inhaled of their heady scent.

"Charming. Did you hear that? Fred 'Charming' Weasley, that's me."

"And here I thought it was Fred Gideon Weasley."

"Gideon?" Lindir chortled. "That is your name? 'Tis worse than Archibald!"

"Lindir!" rebuked Elrond. The other elf smothered his chuckles with a hand. Thinking it prudent to get back to the business at hand (before Fred hexed his friend), he ushered the newcomers to the desk. "You mentioned that you had news which might be of interest to the Dwarves, Dumbledore. Might I prevail upon you to divulge it?"

"What news might that be?" asked Nárdor, clomping over to Dumbledore, who eyed the dwarf over his half-moon spectacles.

"On our … travels … this morning, Fred and I chanced upon a very, shall we say _interesting_, find. Something you might not realise that your ancestors lost."

The dwarf frowned. "What mean you by this? What can Wizards from the North, if that is where you are indeed from, know of the doings of my dwarvish ancestors?"

The dwarf's challenge was gruff, but not offensive. Nor even unexpected; they had learned from the Valar that dwarves of this world were vastly different from those of their own. And who wouldn't be suspicious of a complete stranger turning up and stating they had previously unknown information about someone's ancestors? But Dumbledore still had the ace up his sleeve that would prove irresistible to his new acquaintance.

"We know where to find a lost dwarf treasure."

It worked. Nárdor's eyes practically boggled out of his skull.

"There is no lost Dwarf treasure," he breathed, denying his own words with the newly covetous glint in his eye.

"I beg to differ." Dumbledore laced his hands together in front of his robe. "Fred, would you be so kind as to show our new friend what he's been missing?"

"I'd be glad to." From a pocket in his shocking green coat, Fred withdrew the bracelet he had chosen for his mother. It appeared at first to be a relatively modest circle of silvery metal with dwarvish runes carved along its length, yet - as it caught the flicker of candlelight - it shone with breathtaking brilliance, sending beams of colour to play upon the ceiling. Its beauty stunned all present.

"Mahal's beard! Mithril. Pure, unadulterated mithril!" cried Nárdor, making a grab for the bracelet and examining it lovingly.

"There's more where that came from," said Dumbledore softly.

Burning brown eyes lifted to gaze up at him. "How much more?"

"Much more. Mounds and mounds of gold, silver and jewels. An entire cavern full."

"A cavern full?" Nárdor was practically swooning with desire.

"An _enormous _cavern full. Right at the top of the Starkhorn Mountain in Rohan. And even with the power of magic, it would take weeks to empty it."

"In Rohan. Weeks, you say?" By now, the dwarf was barely breathing.

"Yes, weeks. Would you like to see it?"

"Would I like to _see_ it? Hah! Does a Dwarf have a beard? Of course I would like to see it!"

Pulling Varda's pretty flask from his pocket, Dumbledore touched it with his wand and it glowed briefly before he handed it to Fred.

"Then if you would care to put your finger on that very flask, it will take you, Fred and anyone who cares to accompany you to the very location of your ancestors' hoard within the next minute. It will also bring you back again within an hour, so you'll only have that length of time to explore. But after that, you'll have all the time you need to plan the recovery of your people's rightful inheritance."

With the promise of wealth beyond measure a mere fingertip away, Nárdor didn't even stop to question how such transport was possible. A second later, one meaty dwarvish digit was glued to Varda's flask, and only divine intervention could have pried it away. Bilbo followed suit (more excited by the thought of magical transport than of seeing any treasure) and Lindir, too, could not resist the lure of such a wonder.

"One more thing," said Dumbledore, catching their attention seconds before the Portkey activated. "Do mind the dragon when you get there."

There was no time for them to respond; in that moment, the flask whisked them from view, leaving Dumbledore with nothing more than a fading impression of complete horror on the faces of elf, dwarf and hobbit.

Satisfied, he turned his twinkling gaze back to the elves.

"I presume you have not just sent my friends and guests to their collective doom?" queried Elrond dryly.

Dumbledore chuckled as he took his seat.

"Fortunately not. I took care of the dragon before we ever arrived in Rivendell. They'll see nothing more dangerous than a very large and rather hideous statue - something they'll discover upon arrival."

"What a very peculiar sense of humour you have," commented the stately lord as he produced three glasses and proceeded to fill them with wine. He handed one to Dumbledore before taking his seat behind the magnificent desk. "So, you hail from the same world beyond Arda as the Green Witch? Forgive me when I say that, though welcome, your visit is most unexpected."

"It came as a surprise to me also."

Elrond and Arwen's dark eyebrows lifted simultaneously, and so Dumbledore proceeded to inform them of his and Fred's deaths during the Second Wizarding War, and how they came to be in Arda thereafter, and what, exactly, they were doing there. The tale was not long, but both elves had many questions once it was told, and thus most of the allotted hour Dumbledore had given Fred and the others to explore the Starkhorn's secret hoard was almost over by the time they were finished.

"Varda gave the boy her own Light?" breathed Elrond, hardly daring to believe his pointy ears.

"Technically, she gave it to Molly at his request."

"Yet _she_ has now bestowed it upon the boy for his protection, and now Saruman's wrath may see it falling into the hands of our Enemy. Alas for Middle-earth! That would be a fate worse than Sauron claiming the One Ring!"

The elf's brow furrowed in concern. "I see now why your quest is so urgent. We cannot allow the crebain to complete their mission! Yet what can we do to prevent it? We have not the resources to hunt them from the very skies, even if the Eagles would consent to aiding us. I find myself wishing now that Dwarves did indeed have wings."

"That might not be necessary. Fred and I were instead hoping to locate Radagast the Brown; he was the very reason we Apparated to Mirkwood. However, Mirkwood is rather large, and - realistically - the chances of our finding him based on the random images I saw in the Window of Arda were very small, but we had to try. Perhaps it was lucky, then, that our encounter with the orcs necessitated our visit here, for Bilbo mentioned that you might know where he lives."

"That is correct. But what do you hope to achieve by calling upon him? Aiwendil - or Radagast as you know him - is reclusive; he concerns himself little with the affairs of Men and Elves, preferring instead to tend to birds and animals. Even were you to win his trust, Saruman is master of the crebain, and not even Aiwendil can sway them from him."

Elrond paused for the merest of seconds, his features thoughtful. Then, leaning slightly forward in his chair, he answered his own question.

"Naturally. You intend to have him despatch other birds that may intercept them. A cunning plan, if he agrees to it; yet he may not be so enamoured of any request that may place his feathered friends in danger." Elrond rose and walked to the window, glanced briefly at the sky above, then turned to face the resurrected professor, who was patiently awaiting further explanation. "A craban is not akin to the everyday crow, Albus Dumbledore. It is larger and more intelligent, and after a prolonged association with one such as Saruman, it will doubtless be yet more devious and cunning. Not for it, either, a diet of mere kitchen scraps, eggs and fledglings. Its taste run more to larger prey: rabbits, owls. Indeed, as a group, the crebain have been know to tear apart young deer. Radagast the Brown may not be so keen to send those he cares for to such a doom."

"I understand your concern completely; in fact, I would go so far as to say that I agree with you. Nevertheless, when he weighs it against the possibility of evils greater than the crebain ruling the skies if he _doesn't _intercede, I believe Radagast may be prepared to rally to our cause. It's in the best interests of his friends as well as ours for him to act. You see, if Sauron wins the Light of Varda, then we all lose: man, elf, bird, beast. With the One Ring on one hand and the power of a Vala in the other, he will be unstoppable. There will be no refuge from his evil for anyone on either side of the Sundering Sea, including Valinor."

Arwen regarded him solemnly. "Wise words, Albus Dumbledore, and ones which Aiwendil cannot fail to harken to. Yet you must act swiftly if the crebain are already underway."

"And I intend to. As soon as Fred returns, we must be off."

Elrond approached his desk. "Then allow me to impart the intelligence you seek," he said, rummaging through a drawer. He pulled out a map and four heavy, coloured stones; spread the map out, and weighed it down at the corners.

Rising, Dumbledore leaned across, following the elf's finger with his eyes as it trailed across the parchment. There was no doubt the map was more contemporary than anything he had yet seen, for the area he was looking at was clearly marked, in elegantly flowing script, as Mirkwood, and there was a tiny drawing not only of the Elvenking's halls, but also of Dol Guldur, and roads and rivers that traversed and or dissected through the mighty forest. But it lacked the fine details required for a thorough picture of an intended destination. He would not even be able to Apparate to Thranduil's caves, which was artfully depicted in ink, let alone the dwelling of a lone wizard, which was not depicted at all.

Elrond pointed to a single dot on the southwestern edge of the forest.

"In the last century, Aiwendil has been known to dwell here, near the Carrock." His tapped the dot twice before his finger flew to a point just over halfway up the forest's border. "Yet we have also heard reports in these last years that he has returned to Rhosgobel, which is much further north, and nearer to the Old Forest Road. This would make sense given Sauron's resurgence - the Dark Lord will certainly have sent his lieutenant to reclaim Dol Guldur, a former stronghold."

"I see."

Dumbledore studied the map, thinking it more than likely that he and Fred had appeared nearer Dol Guldur than anywhere else when they had Apparated from the Starkhorn.

"We must have ran into his orcs, then," he surmised, as his gaze flickered across the parchment, down over the Gladden Fields and the River Anduin, and settled on another forest habitat. "No doubt they were destined for Lothlórien."

"No doubt," agreed Elrond, looking grim. "We already know that the Celeborn and Galadriel - the lord and lady of those lands, and our own kin - suspect that an assault on their eastern borders is imminent; your information merely confirms that they have good reason to. It is well that they are already preparing for it."

Sighing, he straightened. "Does this map aid you in your search for the Brown Wizard?"

"Very little. It lacks the imagery necessary for Apparition. But I do agree that Rhosgobel seems the more likely target. Do you by any chance have something a little more detailed of the area, such as a picture, or a painting."

"Alas, but I do not. But I have visited it once, many years ago, upon returning from a trip to Thranduil's halls, though even then my host did not suffer me to remain long. Perhaps I might sketch you a drawing? It will take but a matter of minutes to complete?"

Though helpful, Dumbledore had a much better idea.

"You say that you have been there?"

His host nodded. "Many years ago it was, yes. I recall it vividly."

Excellent news!

"Then I have a much better idea - something that will take only seconds, and give me all the detail I require, if you are in agreement."

Quickly he outlined the process of Legilimency, adding:

"Think of your visit to Rhosgobel, bring it to the forefront of your mind, and then I will be able to see where to Apparate to. You needn't fear for your privacy; I am an excellent Legilimens, and you have my word that I will not wander through any thoughts irrelevant to my goal."

To his credit, the elf lord didn't even hesitate before graciously agreeing. Within seconds, Dumbledore performed the necessary spell and was viewing the Brown Wizard's abode; the image was clear and sharp, and the colours brilliant. Elrond's memory was altogether more detailed than that of any other being's he had ever viewed, which the wizard supposed was the result of his host's superior elven vision.

Nestled in a woods sat Radagast's house, a u-shaped wooden structure built around a large oak tree, and near to a small blue pond. Lichen clung to the bole of the oak, giving it an almost furry appearance, and many birds perched all along the numerous branches while others flew into and out of the house itself through an open window. Of the wizard himself Dumbledore saw nothing, and supposed he must be in the building proper.

Having had his fill, he retreated from the well-ordered mind of the elf-lord.

"Was that of assistance?" asked his host.

"Very much so. In fact, it was the most detailed image I have ever seen in anyone's mind. Other than my own, of course."

The last he added with a chuckle, raising a smile from both father and daughter.

"Now all I have to do," continued Dumbledore, "is forewarn Radagast of our impending visit. I would hate for Fred and I to turn up unexpectedly only to have him set the guard dogs on us."

Not that he couldn't handle guard dogs (if Radagast even had any), but it wouldn't be polite to hex the poor mutts, and then have the cheek to beg their outraged master for assistance.

"How might you achieve that without … Apparating … there?" asked Arwen, faltering over the strange word, but looking very intrigued nevertheless.

Dumbledore's gaze swivelled her way over the top of his half-moon spectacles. "Oh, let's just say I know of a very efficient method of communication that won't require me to even leave this charming room."

The elves watched in great curiosity as, with a flourish of his wand, he cast a Patronus spell. Two sets of eyebrows shot up when a silvery phoenix emerged from his wand tip and floated expectantly before him in the air. The sight left both elves momentarily speechless, and, for a moment, so was Dumbledore, for the Patronus called to mind a very dear friend.

He gazed at it for a second or two, keenly struck by the loss of Fawkes, and wondering what had become of his familiar. Had the magnificent bird returned to his ancient home, or sought out a new companion? No, hardly. Phoenixes in general (and Fawkes in particular) were not known to willingly seek out human companionship. It had been nothing short of miraculous that he had ever done so with Albus. But the circumstances of that particular incident were extraordinary, and very unlikely to ever be repeated. It was far more likely that he had returned to the warmth of his home, never again to be seen by human eyes.

Silently, Dumbledore bid his old friend goodbye and brought himself back to the moment at hand.

"This -" he said, indicating the bird with the tip of his wand, "- is my Patronus. Normally we use them for warding off Dementors - Dark creatures - but they can also be used to carry verbal messages, as we in the Order did during our war. You simply speak to it as if it were the intended recipient, and when you are done, it will carry your message to him or her. However, as Radagast has no idea who I am, it might be wiser if the voice he heard was yours, Elrond."

Arwen rose and joined her father, and they both circled the Patronus in fascinated awe. Tentatively, Elrond stretched out a finger, which passed through the phoenix like a whisper through trees.

"Wondrous. I have never seen the like of it. And you say this creation is able to carry a message to Aiwendil?"

Instead of answering, Dumbledore swished his wand through the air. The phoenix rose, circled the room gracefully, then alighted before Elrond, where it proceeded to relay the conversation they had had since it was called into being.

"How delightful!" declared Arwen as her father's voice emitted from the silvery figure.

Once the Patronus had finished speaking, it disappeared. Wasting no time, Dumbledore instructed Elrond to impart his message to Radagast as soon as he cast the next one; within a few minutes, the deed was done and the Patronus swooped once more around the study before passing straight through the closed balcony windows and disappearing from sight.

Barely had the phoenix faded from even superior elven vision when Fred reappeared, landing solidly on two feet by Elrond's desk. It was fortunate the others had vacated the general area to deal with the Patronus, for beside him was Lindir, who had managed to land gracefully, but sprang back immediately before settling into a defensive crouch. The elf was wearing the most enormous golden crown on his head, and held a long silver candlestick in a death grip in his right hand. Bilbo however, toppled onto the carpet by Dumbledore's feet like a sack of potatoes, snapping his cane neatly in two, and Nárdor crashed full onto the desk, scattering parchment and quills in his wake.

One wizard and two elves froze to look at them in astonishment.

"Afternoon all. Did you miss us?" greeted Fred, looking a little dusty and dishevelled as he stepped around King Lindir to fire a Reparo at Bilbo's walking stick. Ignoring the (snarling) blond elf, he then helped the elderly hobbit to his feet.

"What has happened?" enquired Arwen with some alarm as her eyes fixed on Lindir.

It was Bilbo who got there first. Having incurred no injuries from his little fall, he was already hobbling up to Elrond exclaiming 'What an adventure! What a marvel! What a wonder!"

Also making his fair share of noise was Nárdor, who scrambled off the desk, tugging madly at his face. Dumbledore soon saw why; Fred had conjured a Bubble-head Charm over the dwarf.

"Get this infernal thing _off _me! I am quite myself again, I promise you!"

"Stay where you are, Dwarf, or I will slay you ere the minute is up!" hissed Lindir.

"Lindir!" gasped Arwen in shock.

"My old friend!" began Elrond cautiously. "What mean you by addressing our guest thusly?"

"_Your_ guest," hissed the minstrel pointedly, clutching at his jewel-bedecked crown with one possessive hand while using the other to violently jab the enormous candlestick at Nárdor. "I did not invite the Naugrim here."

"Lindir!" gasped Arwen (again). "I had never thought to hear you use such a word!"

"He doesn't mean it. It's that stupid treasure," chipped in Fred quickly. "And you're not actually _in_ the Starkhorn any more, your Madge, so you can take your crown off," he added, rolling his eyes in Lindir's direction.

"'Tis _not_ his crown! It belongs to the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains!" barked Nárdor as he stomped toward the candlestick-wielding elf, intending to reclaim his property. Lindir neatly sidestepped the angry dwarf and smacked him on the rump with his makeshift weapon.

Elsewhere ...

"Portkeys are magnificent! Now I know what it feels like to be a very big fish on a very big hook. It was dizzying! Dizzying!" cried Bilbo, who had started jabbing at Elrond's robes with his newly repaired mini-stick. "And when we got there, what do you think we saw, Elrond? A dragon! Did you know that there was a dragon there? It was _enormous_! Absolutely _enormous_!"

"He spent the entire hour chucking diamonds in Draulag's mouth. It would've been funny too, if it hadn't been for them." Fred jerked his thumb at Lindir and Nárdor, who were currently squaring off against each other by the dais. "I _really_ think there must be something wrong with the treasure, to be honest. Some kind of jinx on it that makes people go completely loony."

"If there was a dragon, it will take a short while for the treasure to be rid of its enchantment," commented Arwen, watching her father march over to the dais and bodily place himself between the warring factions there. "Any who come into contact with it so soon after the dragon's death will still be subject to its thrall."

"How long before it's safe to touch, then?"

Arwen looked thoughtful. "I cannot say. Perhaps it depends upon how long the treasure was under the dragon's power."

A disgusted sigh. "Great. That explains it. Draulag was in that ruddy mountain for centuries."

"Millennia might be more accurate," corrected Dumbledore.

"Bit different from our dragons, then," said Fred, firing a lazy spell at Lindir's crown. Elf and dwarf yelled in unison as it soared through the air and landed on the desk.

As one, the pair made a dash for it. Elrond, moving astonishingly quickly, grasped Lindir by the arm and frogmarched him to a chair, which he bundled the minstrel into, and there held him fast with an iron grip on his shoulder. The blond protested loudly. Nárdor, beaming at his good fortune, rushed toward the desk, ready to pluck the crown from it.

"Not so fast," warned Fred, flicking his wand. A second chair flew under the dwarf, seating him rudely, and another spell saw him fixed to it by his rump, the gleaming crown just out of his reach.

"What do you mean by this?" demanded the fuming dwarf. "It belongs to me!"

"I'm not saying it doesn't. But it's infected with some kind of dragon magic that'll take a while to wear off, so you're just going to have to wait while it does," he replied calmly.

Between the elf's protests, the dwarf's unhappy (but colourful) curses, and Bilbo's shouts of 'Is anybody listening to me? A dragon, I said. An enormous stone dragon!', Dumbledore was finding it increasingly difficult to follow Fred's narrative.

"With your permission?" he asked of (a very exasperated looking) Elrond, holding up his wand as he indicated each of the troublesome trio in turn with a nod of his silver head.

"I would be most grateful," replied their host, trying to both keep his irate friend seated and remove the bewitched candlestick from his iron grip (Lindir was clutching it to his chest possessively).

Permission duly granted, the former headmaster fired off several spells in quick succession: soon, the deposed King Lindir was sitting as quietly as a mouse, Nárdor had been freed of his Bubble-Head charm and swore solemnly (under threat of being Transfigured into a garden gnome) to behave himself (though he scowled viciously at Lindir), and Bilbo was animatedly describing his adventures in the Starkhorn to the magnificent tapestry of Beren and Luthien, which hung on the wall behind Elrond's desk.

"Now," said Dumbledore, conjuring himself and Fred a chair as a relieved Elrond and his daughter took theirs once more. "You were saying?"

"I was saying that those two went loony. I had to physically tear them apart at one point."

"Might it not have been easier if you had just immobilised them with magic?" suggested Dumbledore mildly.

His young friend huffed in affront. "Easier said than done when there's an angry dwarf sitting on you. Do you have any idea how much all that leather and metal weighs?"

"Why was he sitting on you?"

"I was attempting to reach the Elf, who had stolen my crown, but the young one threw himself into my path," offered Nárdor, tearing his gaze from the strangely serene Lindir.

"You did chuck your axes at him first."

"Which _you_ magicked away. And I want them back!"

"Only if you promise not to 'hack the blasted elf beyond recognition' with them," grinned Fred, obviously quoting something he had heard the dwarf say earlier. Nárdor flushed beneath his beard.

"I would never have said such a thing had I not been held sway under whatever spells the dragon laid upon my inheritance."

"Lucky I put the Bubble-Head charm on you so quickly then, eh," quipped Fred as he produced Nárdor's axes from his rucksack and Enlarged them to normal size before handing them over.

"But you did not put one upon the Elf, I noticed," grumbled the dwarf as he slotted the two axe handles into waiting holsters at his waist. "I should never have allowed him to follow us to the mountain."

"Strictly speaking, you did not 'allow' him to do anything. You were far too preoccupied with reaching said mountain yourself to care about who was joining you," pointed out Dumbledore.

"Bah!" was all Nárdor could manage in reply before returning his attention to Fred. "Just like a Wizard to favour the Firstborn. First _you_ side with him, and now the elder one does also!"

"I didn't favour Lindir, you twat. He was just a lot harder to catch than you were." Fred glanced at Dumbledore, his tone defensive. "You wouldn't believe how fast that elf moved. Seriously. One second he was in front of me, and the next he was on Draulag's back. Then he dashed off into some ruddy chamber at the back of the cavern - also stuffed with treasure, by the way. That's where he found the candlestick. Every time I thought I'd cornered him, he was off again! Faster than a speeding Stupefy, that one is. And then he sneaks up behind me and nicks the bloody flask out my pocket two minutes before it's set to bring us back. The three of us -" Fred indicated himself, Nárdor and Bilbo with a finger "- would've been stranded in the Starkhorn by now if I hadn't Summoned it back with seconds to spare. You're lucky I didn't leave _you_ there."

The last comment he aimed at Lindir, who smiled back at him beatifically.

"Er, Albus, what've you used on him?"

"A Serenity Charm. He'll be on his best behaviour for the next several hours." Turning to Nárdor, the former headmaster asked: "Did you recognise any of what you saw?"

The dwarf's face now took on an expression almost identical to Lindir's as he reflected on what he had left behind him. "'Twas Dwarf-made, indeed. Every last bit of it. I could scarce believe what my eyes beheld, for it was a treasure greater than even that in the Lonely Mountain. Wealth uncounted, I tell you! It must hail from the lost refugees of Gabilgathol."

Nárdor sighed dreamily as he stroked his beard.

"Gabilgathol?" urged Dumbledore, though Nárdor was too deep in thought to answer immediately. Elrond supplied the information instead.

"The Dwarf name for Belegost, a dwarvish settlement in the First Age. It sank to its ruin after the War of Wrath, and those Dwarves who managed to flee it headed East."

"Aye," agreed Nárdor, pulled from his thoughts at last. "The Lord Elrond has the right of it. 'Twas many thousands of years ago. Most of the refugees settled in Khazad-dûm and took Durin as their lord, though not all. Some there were, it was said, who wandered farther south to the White Mountains instead, determined to forge their own kingdom there. They appointed one known as Gróli as their leader and made their home in what was known then as Zirakshathûr - that is Cloudy Peak in the Common Tongue. For a while naught was heard from them as they eked its treasure from the rock. Then, after fifty years, Gróli, known then as Zâbad Shathûr - Lord of the Clouds - sent word to Durin, telling him of the wonders they had wrought. But when Durin sent the messenger back stating his intent to visit, and nothing was heard from Zirakshathûr ever again, it was taken as a sign that he was not welcome. A deliberate shunning by those too gripped by the lust of their own treasure to allow even Durin the Deathless, mightiest of Dwarves, to visit their realm!

"Since that day, it has been forbidden to speak of Zâbad Shathûr and his people, and their names were struck from our histories. So complete was their banishment, that many now believe their existence was little more than a fable; one invented simply to warn children never to get so high an opinion of themselves that they would shun their own kin. Thus the expression of having one's 'head in the clouds' was born. None even knew where Zirakshathûr might be, if it even existed. Yet now we know it does, and now we also know why their correspondence stopped so abruptly. 'Twas not a slight upon Durin at all!"

Nárdor rose and bowed deeply before Dumbledore.

"We owe you and your young friend a great debt, Dumbledore the Deep Purple. Not for the treasure, though you have my thanks for that, but for restoring the honour of Gróli Zâbad Shathûr and all his people. Consider yourself a friend of the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains now and forever. You and Fred the Red both!"

"I might've mentioned our new names," explained Fred to his former headmaster as Arwen giggled daintily behind her hand.

The dwarf bowed so low before Dumbledore that his nose almost touched the floor.

"You are very welcome, Nárdor. Fred and I are both pleased there was a satisfactory resolution to the whole unhappy tale."

Straightening, Nárdor eyed him speculatively. "You have not yet demanded your share of the treasure."

The bold statement took Dumbledore by surprise.

"Why would I? It's not mine to demand. And, fortunately, I have very little use for treasure."

"There are many who would disagree with you. You and Fred both have a legitimate claim upon at least part of it, having discovered it when the descendents of those who wrought it did not even know of its existence."

Even Fred was shaking his head. "There are more important things than gold and jewels. Trust me. Death really puts everything into perspective. Keep your treasure, Nárdor. Give it back to your people - if you can get it out the mountain that is. As long as I can keep the bracelet, I'm happy."

Nárdor looked fairly stunned by their generosity.

"The mithril bracelet?" he asked dazedly. "Is it for a sweetheart?"

"No. It's for my mother."

The dwarf rose, stomped over to Fred, and slapped him heartily on the back. "You are welcome to it, boy! And what a treasure your mother must be to have raised one such as you!"

"A better one than anything in that mountain," agreed Fred, his tone completely serious for once.

"Well spoken, young Fred!" Nárdor gave him another meaty slap of approval.

Bonding complete, the dwarf favoured Lindir with one final glance (though this time of amusement - the elf had been accosted by Bilbo, and was even now listening sedately as the hobbit related the thrilling tale of how he had single-handedly stoned a dragon to death with nothing more than a fistful of gemstones).

"Tell your minstrel that I harbour no ill will against him, now that I know he was not to blame for his actions. And he may keep his pretty crown and candlestick, if he wishes. Let them be my apology to him for trying to bludgeon him to death with my axes. It may also please you, lord, to know that I have decided to forgo my journey to the Lonely Mountain. Frîm, Frám and I have much to discuss, and preparations to make on how to recover Gróli's treasure. Planning the logistics of such action alone should take long enough for the dragon's influence to wear off it!"

Elrond stifled a smile as he nodded in acceptance of the gracious words. "I cannot say that I am sorry you have decided not to pursue your journey East, for the time being. Know that my knowledge and maps are at your disposal if you have need of them. And word I might send, also, to your kin in the Blue Mountains, should they wish to join you. Also to Edoras, for the Starkhorn lies in what is now the Horse-lords lands."

"Let us discuss that in the morning, if we may. For now, I have much to relate to my cousins. Good day, Lord and Lady; farewell for the moment, Wizards. I hope we meet again soon, that I may do you both the honour you deserve!"

With that, he was gone, and - now that they had the information they had came for - it was time for Dumbledore and Fred to follow suit.

"Will you not stay for at least a few moments to break your fast with us?" ventured Arwen as they readied to Apparate.

Dumbledore shook his silver head. "As much as we would like to, we mustn't delay our journey. We have no idea how far the crebain may have travelled, so every second may count. Literally."

"Oh, you're not leaving are you!" declared Bilbo, abandoning Lindir to hobble their way. "But I haven't told either of you about my adventure with the dragon yet. It was enormous!"

"Either of you? What are you talking about? I was there with you," said Fred, looking very bemused.

Oh, dear. It appeared the Distraction Charm Dumbledore had used on the ancient hobbit was working a little too well. He should have moderated it to take Bilbo's height and age into consideration. Never mind; it was sure wear off.

"Did you know I killed it with my own bare hands?"

Hmm. It might wear off.

Eventually …

"A thrilling tale of derring-do, no doubt," he said kindly, as he gazed down at the frail hobbit. "Unfortunately, as much as Fred and I would enjoy hearing it, duty calls us away for the moment. Might we prevail upon you to save it until the next time we meet? Knowing we have something to look forward to will bring us back that much quicker."

Bilbo was positively bursting with pride.

"Why, I would be delighted to save it! Then we might discuss it at leisure over a pot of tea and a strawberry tart, or three. And a few ham sandwiches. Maybe a leg of venison, too, if I can persuade the cook."

"Then I look forward to it!"

Returning his attention to his stately host, Dumbledore nodded first his way, then his lovely daughter's. "It has been an unexpected, and very great pleasure to meet you, Lord Elrond, Lady Arwen."

"It has certainly not been dull," retorted the elf lord wryly, glancing at Lindir (who was still smiling stupidly), then at the floor (his parchments were scattered everywhere, thanks to Nárdor), and finally at Bilbo (who was prodding Arwen's ankle with his tiny walking stick and enquiring as to whether she wanted to hear of his latest adventure). When he met the wizard's gaze again, his features were arranged more seriously. "Let us hope our next meeting might come with more joyous tidings than this one. Fare thee well in Rhosgobel!"

Dumbledore cocked his arm and Fred grabbed it, and with one final nod goodbye, he twisted on the spot, carrying them both to the woodland home of Radagast the Brown.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Author's Note_: This chapter was supposed to continue with the meeting of the three wizards. Unfortunately, my muse had other ideas. By the time it ran out of steam, the chapter was already over 13,000 words long, and I really didn't have the energy to tackle what is sure to be another long scene with Radagast. Sorry, folks, I really don't mean to drag this out, but I just got carried away. Will do better next time, honest!

Kara's Aunty ;)


	47. The Brown Wizard

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. and Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

**Credit: **thainsbook dot net, digital commons dot usu dot edu / cgi / view content dot cgi?article = 1163&context = bark beetles, wikipedia, library dot think quest dot org, thservicesblog dot com, Ambar Eldaron, theoriginalseries dot com / traveltimes, ehow dot com, Hiswelókë's Sindarin dictionary, palomaraudubon.

**Chapter 47**

* * *

_Rhosgobel_

_Third Age, 10th March 3019_

Seconds after leaving Elrond's study, Arda's newest Istari Apparated at the edges of the glade where Radagast's u-shaped home was situated. It looked exactly as it had when Dumbledore had viewed it in Elrond's memory, but with some new additions. The horizontal base hugged the trunk exactly as he recalled, whilst the two vertical arms sprawled behind it. But there were now other buildings also, to the rear of the house, and further off to the sides: a greenhouse, several barns, seeding rooms. A pen and a paddock there were too, the former - outside one of the barns - housed geese and chickens, the latter standing free in the glade with a horse and a pony. All gates were opened for the stock to come and go as they pleased, yet none seemed in much of a hurry to leave.

All about the eaves of the trees, the sweet trilling of avian song filled the air as birds of all kinds flew to and from the stately oak to barn rooftops, or in and out of the open windows in the Brown Wizard's abode.

A fallen tree sat metres to the left of the paddock, long stripped of its branches. Its once knobbly trunk was in an advanced state of decay and covered with moss; cracks in the bark bore evidence of root growth beneath. From under the debris of sloughed bark and rotten wood, two furry voles rushed out and dashed towards the trees. A rabbit hopped out from the hollow within to watch the interlopers leave, then, spotting the new arrivals, dashed back inside in fright.

Upon the log, completely ignoring the potential snacks scurrying away, and staring at the two men almost curiously, were three magnificent falcons. Two of them, the smaller, with long narrow wings and ample amounts of dark slate grey plumage, were clearly hobbies; the third was a large Peregrine falcon with a blue-grey back, spotted white undercarriage, and black head.

"Our welcoming committee," theorised Dumbledore, as he nodded towards the birds. "Shall we?"

With a shrug, Fred followed him across the glade towards the house as the birds silently watched their every move. As they passed the paddock, Dumbledore inclined his head and uttered a polite 'good morning' to the curious pony and the feathered trio on the log; at this the hobbies took flight toward the forest eaves with a screech; the falcon, however, remained a few moments longer, observing them as they stopped at Radagast's door before taking flight. After a few lazy circles, it disappeared behind the house, leaving the wizards alone.

"I think you frightened them," observed Fred. "Hope Radagast doesn't hold it against us, bird-lover that he is."

"Oh, he won't," replied Dumbledore, stepping away from the door without even lifting a hand to rap on it. "In fact, I think we shall find that Radagast is not even at home right now."

"What makes you say that? We haven't even tried the door yet."

"And there will be no need to. Our host will join us very shortly, I suspect. Come, let's take a seat while we wait for him."

Bemused, Fred obeyed, and soon they were both settled on the very log so recently inhabited by the three larger birds. Behind them, the pony was soon joined by the horse, and two equine necks inclined themselves over the fence. Fred laughed when one of them tried to nibble his hair.

"Geroff! It doesn't actually taste like carrot," he sniggered, reaching up to scratch the offending pony's nose. It whickered in pleasure.

To his surprise, Dumbledore's prediction was fulfilled within moments, for both could hear the approaching rustle of feet on the dead leaves which lay scatted around the house.

Rising, they waited as he came into sight.

"So you are the strangers from Imladris," stated an earthy bass tone. It perfectly matched the earth brown robe the other wizard wore. Leaves rustled softly beneath the rough material as it passed over them, and they could see his feet were naked beneath it. On his head was a crooked brown hat, bent backwards at the tip, and his unkempt grey hair stopped just past his shoulders, though continued almost to his waist in the form of an equally bushy moustache and beard. Carrying a long, gnarled brown rod as more of a prop than a walking aid, he came to a halt a few feet shy of the pair, his deep brown eyes fixed intently upon them. "I have been expecting you. For but a few seconds, but expecting you nonetheless."

"Good afternoon, Radagast. My name is ..."

Dumbledore got no further. Radagast waved an age spotted hand once through air; the gesture was abrupt and dismissive.

"I know your name, Dumbledore. The Deep Purple, or so the Elf lord of Imladris says. A most peculiar designation, though it fits your strange robe at least. Time will tell if it suits you also." Brown eyes studied their faces before flickering briefly over their unusual robes. "Seldom do I have visitors," he continued, his study of them complete, "at least, those who are not of the feathered or four-legged variety." He gestured towards paddock, pen, then at the oak above in explanation.

"We won't trespass on your time for too long; at least, not too long after we have talked. There is too much to accomplish and not enough time to accomplish it in."

"Accomplish?"

"Accomplish," repeated Dumbledore. "With your help."

His words brought a guarded expression to Radagast's face.

"My help. The last Wizard to ask for my help betrayed my kindness. Why, then, should I help you, a stranger?"

"Because we are not Saruman."

Brown eyes flashed angrily.

"Not even Saruman is Saruman, as he ought to be! But that does not make you better than he. Nor does it guarantee you my aid."

His tone was curt, his comment brooking no argument. It seemed the Brown Wizard wanted them gone as fast as possible. But with or without his help?

"Surely, with the Lord Elrond himself vouching for us, it at least guarantees us a chance to win your trust?" argued Dumbledore sensibly. "Particularly after having travelled so far?"

Albeit in a matter of seconds.

Their reluctant host's gaze narrowed, and he curled both hands around his staff, leaning against it as he studied Dumbledore more intently.

"Elrond is wise, yet not infallible," he challenged.

"Nobody is infallible," parried Dumbledore.

"Wise or otherwise," added Fred, looking very pleased with himself. Radagast's reply wiped the smile off his face soon enough.

"Then you admit you may have easily fooled him for your own purposes? And yet you expect to win my trust? How do I even know it was you who despatched his message, or how you despatched it?"

"Elrond is no fool, and we both know it," said Dumbledore firmly. Withdrawing the Elder Wand, he waved it once, and the phoenix Patronus shot out of its tip. It floated above Dumbledore, awaiting instruction. He whispered softly to it, and with another wave of his wand sent it flying around the oak tree. Instead of sending its feathered cousins fleeing in fright, they rose as one and followed it around and around the branches, alternately soaring and swooping in a merry dance, their song now sweeter and more joyous than before. When it disappeared, they flew once more around the tree, as if searching for it, before returning to their branches, singing their farewells as they landed.

"Does that answer your question?"

There was no response at first. Radagast's expression remained neutral. His eyes had tracked the Patronus without so much as a gleam of awe, and he looked neither happy nor sad to see it leave. Dumbledore had no idea what he was thinking, nor if the phoenix had swayed him in their favour. And they needed him to be swayed in their favour. Badly. He _could_ find out if he really wanted to, but Legilimising Radagast seemed extremely rude, and rather drastic when patience would more than likely win the day instead. Besides, it would hardly engender the Brown Wizard's trust, even if he was as accomplished an Occlumens as Saruman.

His patience was rewarded when Radagast finally sniffed and said:

"Now that you are here, I suppose it would be rude to bid you to leave without offering you some refreshment to fit you for your next journey."

Hmm. That still wasn't giving much away.

"We are grateful for your hospitality," replied Dumbledore pleasantly, taking hope from the fact that they hadn't been asked to leave immediately.

Strolling past them to the pen, Radagast thrust his free hand into a deep pocket at the side of his robe; withdrawing it, he scattered a pile of grain onto the floor of the enclosure. Geese and chicken descended upon it in a mass of feathers and grateful clucking.

"A treat for you, my little friends, until I return," Radagast said, his tone softening fondly. Job done, he turned and headed back in the direction of his oddly-shaped home without looking their way.

"Come," he said, gruff once more. "If we must talk, then let it be in comfort. Bring your Red friend with you, by all means, but make it quick ere I change my mind."

His features were expressionless beneath his hat, and he spoke no more until he had passed through the main entrance.

"Cheery sort, isn't he?" remarked Fred, watching their newest acquaintance disappear into the house in a flurry of earth brown fabric.

"Yet less hostile than many," pointed out Dumbledore fairly. "He could just as easily have asked us to leave, but he didn't. Still, I think it might be a good idea to let me do the talking," he added, glancing cautiously at the open door. "At least until we have assured him of our good intentions."

"Right-o. You be seasoned diplomat, I'll be the handsome-but-broody sidekick. Got it."

"Quickly, if you please!"

Radagast's hail floated their way, putting an end to their discussion. With one final glance at each other, the two wizards entered the house proper.

It was a very odd sort of a home, to be sure - even for a wizard's abode. Directly ahead of the main door was the trunk of the oak tree, sitting flush at the curve of the house from which the two long arms branched off at each side. The floor was a carpet of grass. The base of the 'u' in which they were standing served as the main living area, if one could call it that, for it held no more than a table and chair, which stood flush to the wall at their right, looking directly out the window, and also a haphazard series of wooden rods hammered along the length of the left wall. Many small birds perched upon them, filling the house with chirps and tweets, though they took flight through the open window when the strangers entered.

Flowers sprung from an odd array of pots (and even an old boot) which sat at every window, their colourful faces smiling up at the late Winter sunshine. The dusky red leaves of an unfamiliar plant sprouted from a broken barrel by the tree bole, and sprawled both up and round the bark itself, as well as spilling over the barrel's edge to the grass beneath. It was dotted everywhere with deep orange-and-green spiralled petals, and clusters of orange berries. The plant emitted a pungent sweetness reminiscent of honey and almonds.

"What is that?" asked Fred of Radagast, as he reached out to inspect it. "Must make it pretty stuffy in here at night, eh?"

A staff came out of nowhere, batting his hand smartly away from its goal.

"Have you never learned to treat the unknown with caution?" grunted the older wizard, pushing past him to block his access to the plant. "If you have no knowledge of it, then it would be unwise to touch it. How do you know that it is not poisonous? Or violent?"

"Eh, because you keep it in your house?"

"Because I ..?" Radagast huffed in disgust. "I keep it in my house because I am the _Brown Wizard_, boy! Friend to birds, beasts _and _growing things. It will not harm me because we are of an accord. You, on the other hand, are a presumptuous stranger, and, for all you know, as likely to seem as tasty to it as a freshly baked loaf is to me!"

Fred shot the plant a look of alarm.

"You mean you keep a _flesh-eating plant _in your house? But it looks so … so … harmless."

"Did I say it ate flesh? Nay, it does not! But think you because it is fair that it is harmless? Hah! Sauron was once fair. Saruman also, in his own way. Yet look at them now: one infects all of Middle-earth with war and hatred, and the other …" He paused and a strange look crossed his face. "The other is a traitor to his Order. A corrupter of birds. A slayer of trees. A deceiver of …"

His voice faltered, and for a few seconds he seemed lost in thought. Then, shaking the mood off, he straightened his shoulders and his eyes became guarded once more. Pointing one long finger at Fred, then at the lone chair in the room, he said, "Now sit, boy. Take what little comfort you can find in the home of Radagast the Fool."

Their host shuffled away, disappearing down the left corridor of his oddly-aligned house and leaving his guests to their thoughts.

"Do as he says, Fred," urged Dumbledore, conjuring another two chairs on either side of the little table. Settling himself down, the elderly wizard stared thoughtfully after Radagast. "And remember what we discussed, because we need our reluctant host's help."

His companion obeyed, staring dubiously at the colourful tree trunk as he mumbled under his breath about Radagast the Bonkers.

Dumbledore was of a different opinion, however. Radagast was not bonkers. In fact, it was blindingly apparent to him that the Brown Wizard was not really angry at his young guest at all. He was angry with himself for being duped by the former head of his Order. Not that Dumbledore blamed him; he more than anyone understood the sting of betrayal, the bitter knowledge that even he could be easily deceived. Barty Crouch Jr had effectively proved that when he masqueraded as Alastor Moody for an entire school year. The worse thing about that was not that Dumbledore himself had been so colossally duped, or even that Voldemort had risen again - that had been unavoidable. No, the worse thing was that Cedric Diggory had ended up paying the ultimate price for his headmaster's failure.

He would never forgive himself for that.

That being said, Dumbledore had learned from his error. Though he would always deeply regret it, he also realised that he could not afford himself the luxury of allowing his own regret to consume him when the resurgence of Voldemort had just plunged the wizarding world into another war. And from his self-deprecating remark, he was willing to bet that Radagast, too, had learned a valuable lesson.

Thinking of Radagast seemed to conjure him up, for the now hatless wizard rounded the corner with a laden tray in hand, paused briefly to acknowledge the sudden population explosion of chairs in his living room, then strode past Dumbledore without a second glance and thumped the tray onto the table.

"Bread and water is all I might offer you at present." He hacked a knife repeatedly through a dark, seeded loaf until it was massacred into many thick slices, then began pouring water into three carved wooden tumblers.

"We are grateful for it," said Dumbledore, accepting one of the modest tumblers as graciously as if he were being handed a crystal goblet full of expensive wine.

"Hmph." Radagast thrust another cup into Fred's hands before taking his seat. "So. You have come to beg a favour of me, have you? What makes you believe that I am in a mind to grant one?"

"You might be when you hear what we need, and for whom."

There was a noisy slurp, then a thud as the Brown Wizard set his cup down.

"I would not be so certain if I were you, Dumbledore. The last Wizard who bade a favour of me also implied it was for the good of others. Yet I am not so gullible now as I was then."

"I don't doubt it. But - as I have mentioned already - I am not Saruman."

Blue eyes met brown, and for several moments they took the measure of each other. Finally:

"That may well be. But that does not necessarily engender my trust."

"I would not expect it to when you have only known me for a matter of minutes."

"Known? We have been but _acquainted_ for a matter of minutes. I was acquainted with the White Wizard for millennia, yet I did not know him at all. Time, it seems, is irrelevant."

"In relation to some things, yes. But not all. You aren't the first person ever to have been deceived, Radagast, and - I am sorry to say - you won't be the last. You are certainly not the only one to have been hoodwinked by Saruman. Gandalf, too, was fooled, something he told me himself. But that doesn't mean you should automatically suspect everyone you meet from now on of duplicity. By all means be more cautious, yes, but not mistrustful."

Radagast's eyebrows shot up.

"You know Gandalf? How is this possible when the news from Elrond is that you are recently arrived from realms unknown? And what manner of apparition was the bird-form used to despatch such tidings, anyway?"

For the next while, Dumbledore related the same tale he had imparted to Elrond, adding only his initial meeting with Gandalf in the Void before describing the chain of events which had resulted in his and Fred's arrival in Middle-earth. By the time he was finished, Fred had polished off the remaining loaf (he was hungry) and Dumbledore had produced another Patronus, at Radagast's request, which the Brown Wizard was currently inspecting.

"It depicts a phoenix, you say?" he said, circling it as it hovered in the middle of the room. "I have heard of many things, but never a bird of that name, let alone one which rises from its own ashes."

The Patronus vanished at Dumbledore's command, leaving the Brown Wizard staring at him thoughtfully.

"You claim that this 'Patronus' is a positive force - a guardian, of sorts, that takes the shape of an animal with whom the caster feels the deepest sense of affinity."

It was a statement, not a question. Fred - feeling he had been silent long enough - answered it anyway.

"That's right. Only the pure-hearted can successfully cast them." He paused reflectively, then added, "Mostly."

Radagast's gaze narrowed his way. "Mostly?"

"What Fred means is that only those not _purely_ evil can cast a Patronus. Dolores Umbridge - a witch who is currently interred in the Wizarding prison, Azkaban - is the only known exception. She was an unpleasant, ambitious, petty and often times cruel woman of whom we have first-hand experience. Yet as disagreeable as Dolores was, even she was never truly and completely evil. The deeds for which she was prosecuted occurred during a time when she was under the influence of a Horcrux, which is a Dark object similar to Sauron's Ring, if less powerful. Her less savoury characteristics were, I believe, greatly magnified by it, though that does not entirely excuse her conduct. A truly evil wizard who is magically capable of producing a Patronus, however, and attempts to do so - such as Raczidian - produces instead a horde of maggots that will consume them entirely."

"Intriguing. Then perhaps it is in your favour that the Patronus you cast before the friend of birds takes itself the shape of a bird."

Encouraged by the comment, Dumbledore stood.

"Does this mean you will help us?"

"I did not say that. What care I for the doings of others when they fall not within my remit?"

"Your remit is to aid the peoples of this world in their fight against Sauron," stated Dumbledore. "The Valar themselves entrusted you with that task."

"My remit was to tend to the flora and fauna of Middle-earth," retorted Radagast archly, visibly irked at being told by a foreigner how to do his job. "Yavanna herself bade me do this, and thus that is what I do."

Disappointed and frustrated by the response, Dumbledore strode forward, his features grave, and looked his host straight in the eye. His tone was serious, the warning it held unmistakable.

"Radagast, if you abandon the sapient races of Middle-earth to their collective fate, then I guarantee that all you hold dear will suffer in kind. Sauron will be no more considerate of your birds and beasts, of your plants -" he waved a hand at the tree bole ahead "- than he will of men or elves or dwarves or any other beings. He will destroy anything and everything on his road to complete supremacy, and if that means a forest here, or an eyrie there - or even the complete eradication of an entire species that can't be exploited for his personal gain - he will not think twice about it. He will simply do it."

"I have not claimed otherwise!" growled the Brown Wizard angrily. "I am neither blind to what happens beyond my borders, nor ignorant of the impact it may have. Do you think that I sit here in my own little world, ignorant of the greater workings outside?"

He thumped his staff against the grass and a great flash blinded them momentarily. When it died down, Radagast was gone, and in his place was the falcon they had seen upon arrival in Rhosgobel. Another flash, and he was back in human form.

"I know a great deal more than you give me credit for, Dumbledore the Deep Purple," he continued, his eyes flashing. "My arts might not be as powerful as those of my Istari cousins, nor as spectacular as yours, but I am no doddering imbecile concerned with naught more than my own meagre lot in life. Ever since my avian friends brought me word of Gandalf's imprisonment in Isengard, then later of his death and resurrection, I have been actively working to thwart the machinations of both Saruman and Sauron, in my own way. That you have no knowledge of this does not make it untrue! I have a duty to protect the beasts and plants of this world, Master Dumbledore, and they are no less important to me than Elves or Men are to you!"

He turned away to stalk up and down the grassy carpet, teeth clenched, shoulders thrown back, and fury emanating from him in waves. For a moment he paused at the tree bole, his fingers dancing lightly over the red leaves climbing its length. Then, harrumphing irately, he resumed his stomping across the grass. Even the birds further up the oak outside must have sensed his ill mood, for all tweeting and chirping, all sweet music of their song, had abruptly ceased. Dumbledore watched, biding his time, as Radagast came to a halt by one of the windows and stood for a minute breathing deeply. The act calmed him visibly.

"That the fate of the higher races falls not within my remit is all I have claimed," continued Radagast in a more controlled voice. "Yet that does not mean I will stand gladly aside and watch ruination be visited upon them - particularly not when that very same ruination might soon sweep away all that I cherish."

Turning, he approached them again. "I am not deaf to your cause, Purple Wizard. Merely conscious of my own failings thus far."

"We have a saying in our world: 'Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me'. To be fooled does not make you a fool. Not to learn from it does. You don't strike me as a fool Radagast, merely as someone who trusted where it was not deserved. But that is Saruman's fault, not yours. You mentioned your 'failings'. I, too, have failings. I, too, have been foolish and made mistakes - grave ones - which I have spent most of my life trying to atone for. We are none of us perfect, you see. We can none of us change the past."

Well, not without a Time-turner. Preferably a functioning one.

"But we can, by learning from our errors in judgement, try to influence the future for the better," continued Dumbledore, "and I have the utmost faith in your ability to do this."

His words made the other wizard thoughtful. "You place your faith so easily?"

"Not at all. I place it based upon our acquaintance so far," Dumbledore smiled broadly. Retaking his seat, he stared up at his host. "And I may have learned from a reliable source that your expertise in the field required is unrivalled in all Middle-earth."

Quickly, he related the pact between Saruman and Khamûl and their dastardly plan to transform Neville into the new ninth Nazgûl, then went on to relate the details of his and Fred's trip to Orthanc, the struggle with a (now silent) Saruman, the discovery that the crebain were already scouring the lands for Neville, and the deal he had made with a grateful Wormtongue to try and locate them.

Radagast's mouth quirked oddly. It seemed that the grumpy wizard was attempting a smile.

"So, Saruman is now without not only his magic, but the very Voice which he has used to beguile and bedevil his way into infamy? How extraordinarily fitting! How delightfully just!"

Two thumps of his staff on the grassy carpet produced a burst of riotous light which shot into the air and fell as colourful, scented petals, which rained upon the visiting wizards in the manner of confetti. Fred looked on in chagrin as several landed in his cup.

"'Tis a sad day indeed to learn that a Wizard once so mighty has fallen on such desperate times," declared Radagast, looking anything but sad. In fact, he was positively grinning. "But it must be said that it cannot have happened to a more deserving person. Saruman the Voiceless. Hah!"

Blowing a petal from his crooked nose (because it tickled fiercely), Dumbledore sought to bring their host back to the point in hand.

"As much as I hate to dispel your good humour, I feel it necessary to point out that Saruman's newfound muteness comes too late to help us. He has already despatched nearly two hundred of his crebain with seedlings that may precipitate the ruin of Arda, if they reach their intended target. These crebain have a twenty-four hour head start on us, so they could be anywhere by now, or several anywheres, if they have split into smaller groups - a prospect which will make them far more difficult to locate. And far more dangerous. To make matters worse, Neville now wears the Light of Varda; if he is incapacitated by Longbottom's Bane, and his magic rendered temporarily useless as a result, if he is then kidnapped and brought before Sauron, he will inadvertently be handing the Dark Lord power unimaginable."

The smile was effectively wiped from Radagast's face, and his mien resumed its usual scowl once more.

"Longbottom's Bane!" he practically spat, grabbing his chair with one hand, pulling it towards himself, and taking his seat. "Bad enough that he corrupted my crows and ripped apart the beauty Isengard once held to feed the fires of his engines. But to collude with a Nazgûl? To deliberately create such unnaturalness?"

He huffed in disgust before swinging his shrewd brown eyes toward Dumbledore.

"And so the meaning of your visit becomes clear at last. You would ask me to command the birds I know and love to risk life and wing in order to intercept and destroy the threat to Varda's favoured one, Neville Longbottom?"

Knowing that they had reached the crucial point of the conversation, and bearing Elrond's warning in mind, Dumbledore worded his response carefully.

"I was hoping instead that you might ask your friends to safeguard their own future by crushing the greatest threat to it, which is not quite the same thing."

"Hah! So you say. 'Tis battle either way. Yet the end result shall be the same, even if they succeed: many of my friends may die."

"They will certainly die if they do nothing, Radagast. If Sauron gains the One Ring _and_ the Light of Varda, your friends will be powerless to prevent the demise of entire species – bird, beast and plant - except those Sauron finds useful. But their deaths are not inevitable. Yet. The only difference now between extermination and survival is whether they meekly await their deaths, or whether some are willing to seek it out for the sake of their feathery brethren. It's the difference between resignation and heroism."

Across the table, Fred fished one of the now soggy petals from his cup and inspected it casually. "Did we mention that Neville is a Herbologist?" he asked innocently. Radagast regarded him blankly. "That's the wizarding version of a gardener. A friend of growing things. And Nev's not just any old Herbologist; he was the best in his year. Right, Professor?"

He looked to Dumbledore for confirmation.

"The most gifted Herbology student Hogwarts has produced in centuries," corrected the former headmaster, staring, not at Fred, but straight at the stony-faced Brown Wizard. "His natural talent and affinity for plants has earned him the highest OWL score we have seen in over two hundred years."

"Makes Saruman an even bigger git then, doesn't it? Trying to off poor Nev with the very things he loves most: plants."

Still Radagast remained silent, but Fred's last comment must have had some impact on him, for his jaw tightened visibly.

They watched the Brown Wizard with bated breath. Dumbledore fought the impulse to lean forward expectantly. Instead, he took a long draught from his cup, though his gaze did not waver from their host. After a few moments of silence - when the tension had ratcheted almost unbearably – Radagast suddenly threw back his head and laughed. The warm, rasping sound of his amusement took both visitors by surprise.

"By Yavanna's green gardens, if you are not both as cunning as Saruman himself!" guffawed Radagast, slapping his thigh heartily. "'Resignation and heroism'! Cleverly worded, Purple Wizard! Exactly the proper mixture of futility and hope, of respect and flattery. And you, boy, using my own words to appeal to my vanity. _A friend of growing things_, indeed. Hah! As cunning as Saruman both. Yet you have wisdom where he has mere knowledge, and that is by far and wide the better trait."

He slapped his thigh again and rose.

"Stay exactly where you are until I return. Do not so much as move from this room, or I will know of it." Giving no explanation, he turned and, with a few quick strides, disappeared back into the left annex of his home, leaving them alone again.

"Was that a 'yes' then?" ventured Fred in bemusement.

"It wasn't a 'no'," replied Dumbledore. He put his cup back on the table and folded his hands on his lap, patiently awaiting Radagast's return. And his answer, though he now suspected what it might be.

"Maybe he's off to find a pitchfork," suggested the younger wizard.

"Why would he need a pitchfork?"

"Makes for a more dramatic scene when he tells us to sod off and never come back. Middle-earthlings love their drama. Haven't you noticed that? Take Saruman, for instance. All that posturing and harping on about how everyone else was to blame for his mistakes. We could've been out of there much quicker if he'd just bypassed the speeches and went straight into attack mode. Then Nárdor and Lindir, insulting each other in the Starkhorn. It was a case of 'why use two words when two hundred will do?' I'm amazed they had the time to physically back up their threats. You know, if we survive this war, we'll end up just like them."

"Threatening each other?"

A snort of laughter. "No. Going native. We'll be walking around saying things like ''Tis a wondrous day to partake of the delights of Summer! What say you to a stroll through yonder glade? We might cool ourselves in the mighty waters of the Anduin and feast on bread and wine by its fair banks afterwards. Or instead partake of a goblet of ale at the _Irascible Istari_? I am told it is the finest inn in all Arda!' instead of 'Nice day, eh? What d'you fancy more: a picnic by the river or a pint in the local?'"

"I find Middle-earth vernacular very pleasant myself," smiled Dumbledore.

"It is. But it's also a bit too … what's the word?"

"Formal?"

Fred nodded.

"Ah. Well, I can understand why you of all people might think that, given your well-earned reputation as a mischief-maker."

"Prankster," corrected Fred, looking slightly offended.

"A honking daffodil by any other name."

"That's 'rose'. And thanks for comparing me to a flower."

At that moment the most incredible noise struck them both silent. From outside and far above - atop the soaring oak tree, perhaps - there came a series of astonishingly rapid screeches, interspersed with a chorus of chirruping and tweeting. For well over a minute it lasted, before ceasing, then beginning again. So loud a cacophony was it, that neither Dumbledore nor Fred could have heard each other shout even if had they tried. After five minutes it stopped altogether. There was a mass flurry of wings and both wizards hurried to the nearest window just in time to catch sight of birds of all colours and sizes soaring over the forest eaves and disappearing from view.

"What do you think all that was about?" asked Fred.

"Our answer, if I am correct. Radagast is assembling his troops."

"Brilliant. Didn't see him leave though."

"He is an Animagus of sorts, if you remember. It would have taken seconds for him to transform into that handsome falcon and fly out a bedroom window."

"Something he could just have easily done here," pointed out Fred. "We already know he can. Why the secrecy now? Why hide it just to go for a chat with his feathery mates?"

"You are even less trusting than I, which is a feat in and of itself," barked a voice behind them.

Fred jumped and whirled around, while Dumbledore pivoted more gracefully on his heel. Before them was Radagast, returned carrying, not a pitchfork, but a bulbous flask and a basket.

"Sorry. I didn't mean …"

"Yes you did, so do not deny it. You should know, however, that I do not normally take other shapes before an audience," stated Radagast, his usual gruffness back in full force. "'Tis a private thing, and were I not making a point earlier you would never have witnessed it at all. But you did, so consider yourself honoured above most. As for 'chatting with my feathery mates' - I can only presume you mean 'friends' - that was necessary for the task ahead, which you will soon realise. Now, hold that, boy, until I tell you otherwise."

He thrust the basket at Fred, who only managed to grab it before it fell. Radagast harrumphed, then strode to the table. Picking up the young wizard's goblet, he threw the water onto the grass, pried a cork from the flask with his teeth (spitting it onto the table afterwards), and filled the cup with a reddish-brown liquid instead. After emptying the remaining two cups, he filled them in kind.

Eyeing his cup dubiously, Fred fervently hoped the basket wasn't meant to catch his head after Radagast poisoned him and chopped it off.

The Brown Wizard caught his look and, interpreting it correctly, guffawed. "Put your mind at ease, Fred. I am not so vexed with you that I would resort to such measures. War makes us all anxious, and you no less than I if you have one behind you already. 'Tis only natural that you have learned to be suspicious. But fear not; I have every intention of assisting you both to eliminate the threat posed by the crebain -"

Dumbledore closed his eyes briefly in gratitude.

"- and I have never yet slain a guest. And never will as long as they do not cross me." He narrowed his eyes Fred's way, snorting good-naturedly when the youth flashed him a winning smile. Pointing to the plant-covered tree bole, Radagast instructed him to fill the basket with the bright orange berries.

Fred stared wide-eyed at the plant in question. "I thought you'd forgiven me."

"That I have."

"But didn't you say the plant was dangerous?"

"No. I implied it, which is not the same thing at all."

"Why not?"

"You ask a good deal of pointless questions."

"They're only pointless to you because the plant thinks you're its best mate. Me, on the other hand, it might eat."

"It will not eat something so clearly tasteless," declared Radagast wryly.

"Tasteless. Thanks very much. That's a huge comfort. So all I have to worry about is being poisoned or strangled by it."

The Brown Wizard rolled his eyes heavenward. "This is precisely the reason why I prefer the company of beasts and plants," he said to no one in particular.

"So is it dangerous or not?" persisted Fred, deeply reluctant to approach the plant until he knew what he was facing.

"Are you a fly?" barked his host, irritable once more.

"Er, no. But I can fly, given a decent broom. Does that count?"

"You are a poor wit, if naught else. But are you also a honey bee?"

"Not even nearly."

"And are you a beetle?"

"Now you're just being offensive."

"Then you have nothing to worry about! It preys mainly on flies and honey bees."

"What about the beetle then?"

"One has nothing to do with the other."

"Then why did you ask if I was a beetle?"

"You remind me strongly of one."

"Why's that then?"

"Beetles are irritating, also. Now start picking, before I lose my patience and turn you into one!"

With the relief of having secured Radagast's help, Dumbledore allowed himself a rumble of laughter as he watched Fred glower at Radagast before stomping toward the plant, where he pulled out his wand and took aim.

"Use your hands, if you please. The querindae plant will not respond to your magic, nor even Gandalf's. It responds only to mine - and only when I do not attempt to rip it from its very roots as you are about to!"

Duly chastised, Fred rolled his eyes and set about picking, Muggle-style. Radagast, meanwhile, took Fred's more comfortable chair, easing himself into it and sighing contentedly. "Come, Dumbledore, drink your mead. We can do naught until my little messengers have returned, and this may take an hour or two. In the meantime, I shall tell you what I have learned about our feathered foes thus far."

So he revealed to them that the crebain had been spotted heading south down the Gap of Rohan early that morning.

"If they are heading east, they will avoid Mirkwood at all costs lest I learn of it. Saruman would not have me chancing upon intelligence best kept to himself. They will also not fly across the Mark, for it is a wide, open land, many leagues broad - too broad to journey without resting, and this they cannot do in its grassy plains; they need trees or cliffs for that. Though their speed is greater than a normal crow, still they can go no faster than two score and ten miles without pause. Thus they will stay close to the White Mountains, following their path south, then east as they search for their target. This means they will need at least three days to reach Edoras. If young Neville is any further south or east than that, it gives us at least two days to stop them."

Two days. It was good news. Better than he had hoped, because he had witnessed Neville and the army of Dol Amroth marching toward the most southerly reaches of Gondor in the Window of Arda before they left Valinor. He could not be more conveniently farther away if Dumbledore had designed it so himself. And as long as the former Gryffindor was occupied there for as long as possible, then there would be ample time for Dumbledore, Fred, and now Radagast, to take care of the crebain before they even had a chance to fly to Minas Tirith, if that was where they were heading.

Then again, why wouldn't it be? Everyone knew battle in Minas Tirith was not only inevitable, but imminent. It was the only place in Middle-earth where Saruman could be certain Neville would end up at some point, so he would have no reason to send his crebain anywhere else. Surely?

"I have bidden the birds of Rhosgobel to carry word to every nest, rookery, eyrie and all other avian dwellings, of our urgent need. This I did during my recent 'chat' with them." Radagast spared a glance at Fred's back. "Swift are they," he continued. "Soon the treachery of the crebain will be known to all birds in Mirkwood, Lothlórien and beyond."

"And then?"

The Brown Wizard swallowed another draught of his mead. "And then, when our messengers return, we act. The falcons are the swiftest, they will soon be within reach of not only their own kin, but also hawks, hobbies and smaller eagles. The Great Eagles, swifter than any bird alive, harken to another, though I have sent word to them regardless. Gwaihir is their lord, and a friend also; I believe he will aid us. Even so we may not have his answer until tomorrow at least. He lives in the northern Misty Mountains, but was seen only this morning heading toward Lothlórien from southern Mirkwood - to warn the Elves there of the Enemy's movements, no doubt. If we are fortunate, he may still be there."

His face crumpled into a pained expression as he contemplated what might lie ahead.

"If we find them - the crebain, that is - there may be no other option but to dispose of them. 'Tis not something I do lightly, for they were once my friends, also. Or at least their ancestors were. Alas, no more. Those who live now are the descendants of those bidden to assist Saruman when I thought he worked for us, not against us. They have been born knowing him alone as their master, living under his yoke, tainted by a lifelong association with a fallen Maia. Saruman has bred corruption into their very bones so that now they are beyond my aid. For this offence alone the master of Orthanc should pay! And he will. As must his servants, for they will not relinquish their task easily, and they are vicious when crossed. For this reason I have specifically called for the aid of the larger birds, the fastest, those more able to defend themselves. If there is to be war in the very skies, then we must assemble our most capable soldiers. Thus I have alerted the falcons and eagles to be on alert. As soon as we know they are willing, we must journey with all haste to Helm's Deep."

The visiting Istari eyed him questioningly.

"Above the Horse-lords' fortress towers the Thrihyrne, a great thrice-peaked mountain where crows dwell. The crebain will certainly find a place to rest there among their cousins, ere they begin the next leg of their flight. There we must make our stand. But not before we warn the native crows to vacate the area. If battle breaks out, I will not have them slaughtered needlessly."

"I understand. But you mentioned that crows are from the same species, or family, of birds as the crebain. Can you be sure that they won't fly north to warn them?"

"Akin they may be. Yet the crebain are tolerated more than loved by crows, for they will hunt them on occasion if all other food is scarce. Only in the Thrihyrne will Saruman's pets not dare attempt this; the native inhabitants vastly outnumber them there." He held up a wrinkled hand when Fred, lugging the now-full basket onto the table, opened his mouth to pose the obvious question. "That does not necessarily mean we might depend on the Thrihyrne crows for aid. They may be provoked into attack if pressed, but only to protect their young, and their territory. Crows in general are sociable creatures. Such a large scale conflict as the one that we expect will be both foreign and distressing to them, and I refuse to compound it by asking for their aid. As it is, we shall have no need of their assistance given the number of allies we might soon expect."

So firm was his tone, so final his answer, that Fred didn't comment on it further.

"So what's the story with these, then?" he asked instead, pointing to the fragrant basket he had worked hard to fill.

"Ah. My little friends." Radagast thrust a hand into the basket and withdrew an orange berry. "The querindae plant is a pretty thing, is it not? Its vivid blossoms both bold and beautiful. But its beauty is a guise, for it is a carnivorous plant first and foremost."

Fred shot him a look of affront. "_'Did I say it ate flesh? Nay, it does not!'_" he quoted, in a very good imitation of Radagast.

"Not the flesh of Men," said the Brown Wizard, completely oblivious to (or deliberately ignoring) his young guest's outrage. "It preys on flies, bees, ants and wasps. They are lured by the scent of the pollen-bedecked stigmas. These stigmas, however, are not as harmless as they appear to be. They are the very instruments of death itself; when an insect lands on one, several more shoot up around it, trapping it, drawing it down amidst them all where they are then slowly digested."

"That's disgusting."

"That is nature," replied Radagast matter-of-factly. "But unusually – and more importantly for us - the querindae also has an appetite for other growing things, except trees and grass. 'Tis the reason I have it so far from my flowers yonder -" he pointed at the pretty window displays "- for if not planted with caution, the stalks will droop over other plants, dropping their berries in the soil beneath. The seeds within embed themselves quickly in the soil and, when abloom, will gorge their way through entire gardens until the querindae reigns supreme. Alas, but this very trait has seen it almost eradicated from the face of Middle-earth, for gardeners loathe it above all else. Pest, they call it. A weed!"

He shook his bushy head in disbelief. Fred, still annoyed about the 'carnivorous' incident, rolled his eyes.

Dumbledore, on the other hand, was delighted by the news. Radagast's querindae berries seemed the ideal foil for Longbottom's Bane if the upcoming confrontation on the Thrihyrne did not go in their favour. If he had inferred correctly, and it was the Brown Wizard's intention to arm his birds with the fruit, they could quite easily deposit them amidst any of Saruman's seedlings that slipped through their clutches and made it into the soil. This might effectively kill the Longbottom's Bane before it did any damage. Presuming that the crebain carrying them could be located at precisely the moment of deposit.

Hmm. That seemed to be stretching hope a little too far. Still, hope was hope, however slim.

Galvanised by his new friend's revelations, Dumbledore dipped his hand into the basket and plucked a berry of his own for inspection. It looked like a perfectly ordinary, unremarkable Muggle fruit. Yet it could save their day.

"I have a point and a question. Firstly, if your birds spread these, there may be a danger they will eat them before they ever get airborne. Secondly, if the berries survive the journey unmolested, how long is the duration from seeding to fully flowering plant?"

"To address your point, it matters not if they eat them, as long as they aim their rumps over the right spot afterwards," replied Radagast with a perfectly straight face.

Fred sprayed his mead all over the grass. Dumbledore's eyes twinkled in amusement.

"As for your question, the answer is five days."

Dumbledore frowned. Five days was not nearly fast enough – not when Longbottom's Bane had been engineered to produce a new generation every two hours.

"Five days _without_ the power of my magic," added Radagast with a sly grin. Touching the tip of his staff to his own berry, he added: "Observe."

With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the berry into the air. It landed by the barrel containing the parent plant. For a moment or two it simply sat there looking abandoned and very unimpressive. Then, all it once, the fruit seemed to split in half at the base before shrivelling.

"The seed within senses the soil," explained Radagast, looking very much like a proud parent. "It has broken free of its fleshy womb and taken root in the warmth of an earthen home instead."

Fred shook his head in amusement as he stared at the ground ahead.

Within a minute, a delicate stalk shot upwards amidst the ruins of the berry, then, thickening in circumference, rose up toward the parent plant; dusky red leaves sprouted from it, and still it grew. A bright orange bud appeared at the tip, rising ever farther from the ground until it joined its drooping siblings, then it blossomed into the familiar orange-and-green-petalled flower which covered the oak.

"Grima was quite right. You _are_ a master of plants. Or should I say Middle-earth's very own Master Herbologist?"

Radagast acknowledged the compliment with a nod, and he actually chuckled. But it was laced more with bitterness than amusement.

"Master Herbologist indeed. Most assuredly a cannier one than Saruman the White ever was or shall be, despite his efforts. Isengard was the last place in Middle-earth where the querindae plant grew. Had I not procured a sample of it on my last visit to Isengard, it would be extinct, now that Saruman has destroyed all growing things there to make way for his machines of war."

"How ironic that it might now be the very thing that thwarts his final strike for power," commented the former headmaster.

"Irony or justice; either way it will not work unless we stop the crebain first."

"Then perhaps it is time we began discussing tactics."

Slapping his thigh in agreement, Radagast pulled his chair closer to the table and all three wizards spent the next while doing exactly that. Tactics were evaluated, logistics discussed, berries enchanted, the Brown Wizard Legilimised (so Dumbledore would know where to take them) and Apparition demonstrated (which Radagast termed 'more deeply unnatural than having someone burrowing around in his brain'). Their plans were rudely disturbed when a loud screeching outside alerted them to the arrival of company.

"Aha! Gwildor returns," cried Radagast springing from his chair. "Let us discover what tidings he brings us!"

Fred arched a red eyebrow. "Gwildor?"

"One of the hobbies you saw upon your arrival, perching on the log."

"I saw three birds on that log, one of which was you. How do you know which of the other two that one is?"

Radagast snorted. "I do believe I am intelligent enough to differentiate between the voices of one friend and another. Have I not already said that I am Radagast ..."

"... the Brown, friend to birds, beasts and all growing things," repeated Fred. "Yeah, yeah. Point taken."

Hiding a smile, Dumbledore rose in kind and they both followed their cantankerous host outside just in time to see one of the hobbies – Gwildor – swooping over the eaves of the surrounding forest. Leaving them in his wake, Radagast thumped his staff and transformed into his falcon shape in a flash of light.

"So much for not taking other shapes before an audience," observed the younger man as Radagast-the-bird joined his feathered friend on the log, where they held a very screechy conversation.

"Do you dislike Radagast as much as you pretend?" asked Dumbledore as they headed toward the birds.

"I don't dislike him. He's all right. A bit crusty, a bit bonkers, but I like him. As much as he likes me."

Which wasn't saying much.

"I suspect he likes you well enough, in his own way. He's just not used to human society. Perhaps if you, too, could transform into a bird he would seem more sympathetic."

"There's an incentive to become an Animagus if ever I heard one," retorted Fred so dryly that Dumbledore had to laugh.

There was no more time for talk as Gwildor spread his wings and took flight back across the glade, over the trees and out of sight. Radagast had already transformed back into his human form and was even now approaching them.

"Gwaihir has already left Lothlórien for his eyrie," he announced, though he didn't look particularly perturbed by the information. "But all is not lost. Far from it. We have now the allegiance of many who are willing to aid us: an aerie of smaller eagles, kettles of hawks, a wisdom of owls, a flight of goshawks. Even a wisp of snipe from the marshlands yonder."

He pointed somewhere northwest, which was nice, if not exactly informative.

"Even now our friends make for the Thrihyrne, and so we must follow where they lead." Radagast was now visibly animated; hair wild as he strode towards them, brown eyes alight with fire, lips drawn back in an almost feral snarl. His tone was both grave and impassioned as he strode their way. "Our army is a-gathering, fellow Istari. Radagast the Brown has been idle long enough, and the threat against flora and fauna has been growing as he did so. But no more! Now the time is at hand to strike against those who would degrade and defile them. We shall bring the very fury of Nature herself to our Enemy's doorstep, and they shall learn what it means to trifle with her!"

Bypassing them, he headed for his oddly-aligned house once more.

"Come," he called over his shoulder as he disappeared through the front door. "Let us gather bread and basket, hat and staff. Radagast the Brown and friends go to save the Chosen One. Radagast the Brown goes to_ war_!"

Chosen One. The irony of it made Dumbledore smile. Who would have thought that Sybill's prophecy would end up applying to both Harry _and_ Neville, in its own way? One boy in Dumbledore's old world, the other in this, his new one?

"Didn't I tell you Middle-earthlings loved their drama?" said Fred smugly.

"Yes you did," replied the former headmaster as they too passed into the house. "But give them their due; they are very good at it."

Very good indeed. And it was not undeserved in this instance. Radagast had more than earned the right to a little theatrics. The Brown Wizard had been overlooked and underestimated for years; now, though - like a sleeping giant struck once too often - he was poised to strike back.

And Merlin help anyone in his line of fire ...

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Author's Note_: Not as humorous as previous chapters, mainly because I wanted Radagast to come across a little more seriously than some other portrayals I've read of him. Not that the other portrayals were bad – not at all! They were apt for the purpose used in their own fics. I just had this image of Radagast and wanted to portray him so. I've even avoided going to see 'The Hobbit' so my depiction couldn't be coloured by PJ's. But I can go watch it now …

YES!

I have no idea about birds or plants (other than one flies and the other grows), so everything mentioned was researched from the web. Apologies in advance for anything that might strike you as a muck-up.

On a side note: Fred is not trying to be rude to Radagast; not even nearly. But Radagast is not the easiest person to get on with, considering he lives a practically hermit lifestyle. He's abrupt, crusty, and even confrontational, at times, and lacks the (by comparison) more affable manner of Gandalf. In fact, on several occasions he actually patronises Fred without provocation. He doesn't mean to, he's just not used to people - especially vivacious youths like Fred. So I think Fred is pretty polite, given the circumstances. You're never going to like everyone you meet anyway, it's a fact of life. But despite this, I think they'll grow on each other. Their relationship reminds me of the two old men who sit in the private balcony seats on The Muppet Show, arguing constantly with each other all the time, but also having the best laughs. And that makes me smile :o)

Next time: Can Augusta save Faramir from his father's deranged clutches? Will she bite the magic bullet and save the stroppy Steward too, or leave him to crispy fry in his own fat? Tune in to find out!

Kara's Aunty ;)


	48. The House of the Stewards

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. and Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

**Credit: **thainsbook dot net.

**Chapter 48**

* * *

_Minas Tirith_

_Third Age 15th March 3019_

Augusta and Pippin sped westwards through the sixth circle, ignoring the sound of enemy drums, the cries of war and death, and the crash of burning missiles thudding into buildings below, desperate to reach Denethor before he crispy-fried both himself and the splendidly dentured Faramir.

Approaching the rearward wall, they spotted a small gatehouse, beside which stood a closed door. They dashed toward it.

"That's the Closed Door!" cried Pippin as they ran.

Talk about stating the obvious.

"That is, Fen Hollen," informed the hobbit. "It leads to the tombhouses of the Kings and Stewards of Gondor, where Denethor has taken Faramir."

He said no more, for just then angry shouting emitted from the far side of the small house, and then the air rang with the clashing of swords. The commotion spurred them forward even faster, until Augusta spied a tall guard in black and silver duelling with an older man, whose lantern lay abandoned on the paving, having dropped as the fight began.

"Beregond! No! Don't hurt him!"

Pippin's desperate call startled the two men, and they stilled, chests heaving, eyes flashing, swords still raised at the other in warning.

"He will not surrender the key to the door!" cried the younger man, glowering at the porter accusingly.

"None but the Lord of the City may use this way, other than those who bear the token of the tombs and tend the houses of the dead," responded the porter righteously. "You are a Guard of the Citadel; you bear no such authority."

Beregond advanced on the porter, his tone low and dangerous. "The Lord of the City has lost both his hope and his wits and would burn his heir alive. I have told you this already!"

But the porter remained stubbornly impassive. "What proof have you? None! I will not abandon my duty as easily as you have yours, and based on little more than the word of a traitor at that. Yes, traitor I name you, for only a traitor would defy and sully his lord's authority in the same breath!"

With a growl that would put Fenrir Greyback to shame (if Neville and Ronald Weasley hadn't collectively offed him), Beregond launched himself anew at his opponent, and they danced around each other, blades clashing furiously.

Good grief!

With a roll of her eyes and a stroke of her wand, Augusta blasted Fen Hollen from its hinges. It soared backwards and downwards, leaving a gaping hole in its wake. The act brought an immediate halt to the swordfight, with Beregond taking advantage of his opponent's sudden, shocked inaction to grab the fallen lantern and dash around him. He passed quickly through the shiny new entrance and out of sight.

"Don't hurt anyone!" cried Pippin at his receding back. "I've brought the Green Witch – she'll take care of them."

Beregond was already gone.

"You … you … you destroyed the Closed Door," stuttered the porter, gazing boggle-eyed from what remained of Fen Hollen to Augusta and back again. His jaw flexed angrily, and he raised his sword as he stormed her way. "Centuries of age, of tradition, of solemnity, and you make a mockery of it by destroying it in less than a second?"

"Oh for Merlin's sake! Send me the stupid bill if it's more important to you than your Steward's life!" she snapped.

Tradition and solemnity indeed! What was the good of it all when it took precedence over the life of a fellow human being?

Another burst of magic and the fast approaching, sword-wielding porter was frozen mid-stride.

"There is such a thing as taking your job _too_ seriously!" she huffed disgustedly as both she and Pippin rushed past their immobile adversary.

Through the gaping doorway they raced and down the curving, winding road lined by many pillared balusters. When they reached the bottom, Mount Mindolluin loomed ahead, connected to the city proper by a rocky spur. On this spur were many domes and halls and carvings of rulers long dead.

"Quickly! Up there!"

Pippin pointed at a large building several yards away, though the gesture was redundant; Beregond could just be glimpsed ahead, disappearing down the steps to the front doors, where light illuminated the porch before them. There came then a cry to halt, then more, followed by the unmistakable clang of sword against sword.

"No, Beregond! I said don't hurt them. Hurry, Mrs Longbottom. _Hurry_!"

With that, Pippin raced ahead, his dark cloak flapping wildly as he disappeared down the stairs.

"Wait just a moment, young man!" called Augusta, alarmed at the prospect of the sweet little mini-Muggle getting caught up in a desperate battle. She was just about to dash after him when a screech above alerted her to the arrival of unexpected, and very unwelcome, visitors.

Nazgûl!

Augusta swung around to find two wraiths swooping toward the spur on their ugly steeds.

What the deuce where they doing here? And what the blazes was Gandalf all about, allowing them to get this far!

Wasting no more time thinking about the insufferable Mr White, she fired off a Patronus, which the Ring-wraiths swerved to avoid. Undeterred, the Patronus simply turned and started hunting them down. Believing it would do the job, Augusta raced back toward the House of the Stewards; but her progress was rudely interrupted when one of the fell beasts - leaving its comrade to the tender mercies of Augusta's dolphin - swept ahead of her and turned about. It descended with breathtaking speed, blocking her path up the road as it zoomed her way with talons outstretched.

It was trying to snatch her!

Snatch _her_! Fly off with her as if she were some sort of overgrown worm to snack on at leisure.

Why, that miserable excuse for a granny-grabber! _No one_ snatched Augusta Longbottom!

She lashed out with her wand and ropes shot toward the fell beast. One end caught its leg, encasing it firmly, while the other dangled freely in mid air. Using the beast's momentum, she enchanted the loose end of rope, then repeatedly swept her wand up and over her head in wide arcs. Immediately the rope became taut, yanking firmly on the furled end anchored around the beast's leg. The hideous creature screeched horribly as, under the power of magic, it swung up and over, back and forth, following perfectly the trajectory of Augusta's wand.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

Pristine paving shuddered and cracked from the force of the blows as beast smacked stone at first one end of the rocky spur, then the other, over and over again. The Ring-wraith barely toppled to the ground in time, and was nearly pounded into smithereens when the rope swung its mangled, lifeless catch his way. It hit the ground with such violent velocity that it bounced once, twice, three times, before toppling over the balusters and plummeting to the foot of mountain.

"Thou shalt answer for the demise of my pet, Green Witch of Gondor!" hissed the Nazgûl. It drew its long sword and raced her way at a frightening pace, literally fuelled by fury. The air grew chillier the nearer it drew; Augusta could feel the skin on the back of her neck prickling, and she shivered violently.

Gracious. How very chilly it suddenly was. Why, she might catch her death of cold if that stupid creature got any closer! Didn't it know how frail the elderly could be?

Not that she was elderly. Not even remotely.

Still, it might be time to start thinking about building a nice warm fire (as long as it contained neither the Steward nor his ailing son) ...

With the aid of her trusty wand, Augusta soon had a nice blaze going. A very Nazgûl-shaped blaze.

Her foe's piercing cries served only to chill her further, but it did not last long; the Ringwraith fled back up the spur, up the stairs, through the ruined door of Fen Hollen, and was soon lost from all sight.

"And don't come back!" barked Augusta, waving a fist at its smouldering cloak.

Job done, she spun on her heel and ran towards the angry shouts coming from the House of the Stewards. By the time she reached the porch, Augusta discovered that Pippin had already pushed his way amidst the warring factions there; he stood with both arms raised, one hand splayed in Beregond's direction and the other in the four guards' as he beseeched them all to cease hostilities.

Unfortunately, the guards were having none of it; they simply circled around the hobbit, roundly admonishing Beregond for his 'traitorous conduct' as they approached him with weapons held high.

Foregoing a warning, she froze them in place before they could do any damage. Beregond – not missing a beat – headed for the doors and tried to push them inwards. They wouldn't open. The handles simply would not give way. In desperation he started throwing his weight against them.

"My Lord Steward, make open these doors I beg of you!" he cried. "The Lord Faramir is not yet ready for this lifeless hall. Do not condemn him to death when he is yet sorely needed!"

There was no response.

"Out of the way, my good fellow," ordered Augusta briskly, aiming her wand at the lock. "Alohomora!"

There came a heavy click, and the doors swung inwards under Beregond's weight as he pushed against them before rushing in, followed swiftly by Pippin. Augusta was hot on their heels.

Upon entering the main chamber, she was struck by the cold austerity of the place, with its high dome, pristine walls and many graceful arches. Blue eyes were greeted by the sight of numerous vaults, all containing the tomb of a dead Steward. Each tomb boasted a full-length marble statue, with hands folded and pillow under its head. The air was chilly inside, and her breath came out in little white puffs.

Ignoring the drop in temperature, Augusta strode down the corridor, past the stately vaults and their silent inhabitants. Torchlight flickered ahead and she made her way towards it. Beregond and Pippin, who had drawn to a halt before a well lit vault, were being held at bay by the small contingent of mail-clad guards who stood protectively before it. She could hear them arguing fiercely even before she reached them.

"What is the meaning of this?" demanded an unseen party, and she immediately recognised the icy authority of the Steward of Gondor.

"My Lord, I am Beregond, Guard of the Citadel and your faithful servant. I come to beg – nay, to plead – with you, that you stay your hand and show the Lord Faramir mercy," announced Beregond. His voice rang through the Hall, echoing off the arched walls and dome above.

"Mercy? 'Tis not I whom you should be pleading with for mercy, Beregond of the Citadel! Even if it were, the time for that is late. There can be no mercy left for those who repose in eternal sleep!"

"But Faramir's not dead!" cried Pippin, trying to dodge his way around one of the stony faced guards. Two of them stepped forward, swords pointed his way, and another two raised their own weapons when Beregond tried to force his way past them.

"I tell you that he is!" barked the Steward. "I hold him in my arms as we speak, and not a breath passes through him; no rise or fall of his chest is there, not even a groan of pain from his lips. Faramir! Faramir! My sons are spent. My line is ended."

His voice, gruff with pain, faltered for a moment. Pippin and Beregond were still attempting to circumvent his protective detail, pleading with him to let them ascertain Faramir's condition. Their protests were countered by warnings from the four guards.

"Remove them from this place," ordered Denethor wearily. "I will have peace with my son in these final moments ere the City falls."

"But he's alive!" Pippin's voice was heavy with frustration and desperation as he switched tactics and appealed to the Steward's guards instead. "Your captain is alive! I have seen this myself. How can you just stand there and let him be killed when it lies within your power to save him!"

"It is not for us defy our Steward!" growled one grizzled man. "The Lord Denethor may attest more assuredly to the mortality of his own son than a mere Halfling. Now do as he bids and leave before harm finds you."

"Harm will find the White Captain ere it finds us, fools!" snapped Beregond. "You allow duty to override sense. Gaze upon him with your own eyes if you will not believe us. And make sure that you look closely! If indeed you find that the Lord Faramir is as dead as the Steward claims then we shall throw down our swords, beg his pardon, and weep as we depart. But we shall_ not _depart until the Lord Faramir's demise has been verified!"

Denethor's voice hardened in anger. He had had enough. "Do you doubt the word of your lord? Guards, either remove them or slay them for their treasonous conduct, I care not now. But see that they trouble us no more!"

Barely had they raised their swords when Augusta halted the conflict in its tracks by Summoning the weapons from them.

Admittedly, it was not the wisest of things she had ever done. Barely had the incantation left her lips when the swords of Denethor's personal guards, Beregond's own gleaming weapon, and Pippin's glorified steak knife came whizzing her way.

Aargh!

She ducked as they flew past her and thudded heavily into the marble form of Boromir, eleventh Ruling Steward of Gondor, where they quivered harmlessly.

What a stroke of luck that the poor chap was already dead! It wouldn't do to have stabbed such an important fellow otherwise.

"I do beg your pardon," she apologised sheepishly as she rose, mindful that she had still knifed a Steward (however accidentally).

Deprived of their swords, the guards now sought to carry out their leader's final orders using more brutish methods. Two accosted Beregond with their fists, and a grand old punch-up was in full swing by the time Augusta twirled their way. Another grabbed Pippin by his collar and held him up by it, so that the hobbit was swinging helplessly in the air. But the man had not reckoned with the sheer force of an angry hobbit heel, which Pippin swung backwards with uncanny accuracy straight into his particulars. Pippin was suddenly freed as the guard grunted in agony and dropped to the floor, where he doubled over in pain. The hobbit's freedom was short-lived when the fourth guard lunged after him.

Augusta was just about to raise her wand to assist him when Pippin – scrabbling away on his hands and knees, with the guard hot on his heels – violently shook his head at her. He tipped it in Beregond's direction; the Guard of the Citadel had successfully lured two of his aggressors away from Denethor's vault and was currently using his feet to lash out at the one heading Augusta's way. The unfortunate fellow toppled to the ground, sprung back up, and raced back towards Beregond, who was now struggling with the other guard. Beregond balled his fist and swung it back to hit the first, accidentally catching his second opponent in the nose with his elbow. Blood spurted everywhere as the guard fell again, this time clutching at his face. With a third guard chasing Pippin, and fatherhood now looking completely beyond the groaning fourth, Augusta was now free to confront the psychotic Steward.

How delightful.

Slipping past the warring factions into the vault, she found her target sitting upright on a large stone table Beside his suicidal father, lying still, silent, and paler than the very walls surrounding him, was poor Faramir. Both were covered in a soft blanket.

Alerted to her presence by the clack of heels on the marble floor, Denethor put a hand on his silent son's arm and offered her a cold, haughty glare.

"So, Mistress Longbottom. You have been liberated from the dungeons against my orders -"

Obviously.

"- no doubt Mithrandir's doing -"

Whoever that was.

"- yet he shall have his thanks for that ere the dawn arrives, for not even his magic can stay the fall of my City now -"

Ah. Mr White. Yes, well, his magic was rather underwhelming (what she had seen of it).

"- nor can yours, Witch."

Ignoring the challenge (for the moment), August's bright blue orbs swept over the waxy figure of Faramir. The poor chap did indeed look like he had boarded the Hogwarts Express. Only the faint rise of the coverlet on his chest proved that he was still in the process of buying his ticket, and not steaming his way towards the Pearly Gates. Pippin had the right of it: Faramir was alive!

Augusta raised her eyes to Denethor, taking in the possessive hand he splayed across his child's shoulder. Flickering torchlight from the bracket above illuminated the determination in the set of Denethor's features. Thankfully, there was no wood or other fuel visible yet, so it appeared she had arrived in time.

"What the blazes do you think you are doing?" she demanded. Her question was almost lost amidst the oof-ing and yelling in the chamber behind them, though the Steward had little trouble in hearing it.

"The blazes are precisely what I seek to do, madam, once I am furnished with wood and oil. 'Tis time to cast off all my earthly woes and join both my sons in eternal peace," retorted Denethor morbidly.

"Eternal hellfire for you, more like. Murder is not looked upon kindly in Heaven."

"Taking my own life is not murder!"

"No. It's stupid. And suicide. Naturally, I would prefer you refrain from being quite so silly, but it's your life and, ultimately, your decision. However, it _is_ murder if you insist on taking someone else with you, and if you are under any illusion that I will stand meekly aside and watch as you kill that splendid young fellow too, then you are sadly mistaken."

"How dare you speak to me thusly. One cannot murder he who is already dead!"

Firing a jet of violet light from her wand, Augusta watched as it coalesced into a mist above Faramir's face. Denethor recoiled slightly, and his eyes grew wide as the mist was gradually dissipated into nothingness by the puffing of Faramir's laboured breaths.

"I think that proves my case," stated Augusta primly. "Something you might have noticed if you weren't so busy wallowing in self-pity. If you will be so kind as to move aside, I will see what I might do to stabilise him before we transport him to the hospital. And now that you know he's alive, you might want to think twice about killing yourself. Your son will need his father during the long recovery ahead."

To her mystification, the revelation of his son's condition seemed to enrage Denethor. The Steward thrust aside his coverlet and leapt from the table, and only then did Augusta see the heavy globe he was cradling in the folds of his mantle.

"What recovery do you think he might have under Sauron's rule, woman?" rasped the Steward as he faced her, one hand on the stone table, the other supporting the sphere. "He is the son of the Steward of Gondor. Were he to fall into Enemy hands, his suffering might be an agony prolonged over decades. Worse, if the Dark Lord uses his evil arts to make him his agent. What more fitting punishment could there be for years of Gondorian defiance than to turn one of her noble sons into the very Enemy we have fought for two Ages of Men? Would you wish that upon him?"

Denethor's face was a picture of outrage as he spat the question at her, his fingers white where they clutched at stone and cloth.

"What the deuce makes you think that Sauron will win the war?" she demanded, disgusted by both his lack of backbone and his apparent eagerness to kill his own child.

"This!" He thrust the dark sphere at her. Even from a few paces away, Augusta sensed the strange magic from it, saw it begin to swirl in its depths when his bare fingers touched it. "When connected with his own, I see the Dark Lord's intent through this Palantír. I know his mind. I know what he plans for Gondor, and I will thwart it in the only way I might."

"_That_," said Augusta pointing at the Palantír "is a magical object, and – whatever other talents you may possess - _you_ are no wizard. That idiot in Mordor, however, _is_, and I am fairly certain that he's more than capable of manipulating it from his end. You only see what he _wants_ you to see. You're an intelligent man, Denethor; surely you must have realised that by now?"

"It is you who are lacking in reason, madam. The blood of Numenor flows strong in my veins; Wizard or nay, for this reason have I been able to master the Palantír these many years past. The Dark Lord holds no sway over what I see, and what I have seen shall come to pass."

"No it shan't! Haven't you been watching the battle outside? Don't you know that we've managed to keep Sauron's army at bay – more than keep them at bay; they've retreated halfway up the Pelennor! And once the Rohirrim arrive, his army will be sorry they ever left their dreary little country to trifle with us."

Her words merely evoked harsh laughter. "Rohan shall not come to our aid, foolish woman. Even now her people burrow into the temporary safety of their mountain fortresses, betraying Gondor with their cowardice."

How dare he slight her strapping blond friends!

"They jolly well are not cowards!" she snapped, offended on the Rohirrim's behalf. "Why, they are the bravest, strongest and most honourable people I have ever met." Apart from Archie. And Harry Potter. And all those smashing fellows currently hurling insults (and possibly rocks, if they had managed to repair the trebuchets) at the motley crowd on the Pelennor.

"If you find cowards appealing that says more about you than aught else you have done thus far," Denethor responded contemptuously. "Yet if your faith in their honour is so resolute, it would perhaps serve you better to await them elsewhere. You will soon learn the truth of my words. In the meantime, allow those of us who know better to meet our deaths in the manner we deem best fit for us."

His eyes were blazing with fury and madness, and – bundling the Palantír back into his robes – he looked across his shoulder and nodded once.

"Mrs Longbottom! Look out!"

Pippin's warning startled her and, confused, she turned. But she was too late to lift her wand as the guard the hobbit had incapacitated earlier – now back on his feet and creeping steadily her way – lunged at her back. His arms circled hers, pinning her hands – and her wand – to her sides. Outraged, she struggled, but the guard was considerably taller than her, and by far her superior in physical strength.

"Put me down this instant, you overgrown buffoon!" she cried, lashing back at his shins with her heels. He took the blows manfully, bolstered, perhaps, by the arrival of another contingent of his comrades. They bore armfuls of wood and several canisters of oil, all of which they dropped in their haste to help him subdue the intruders.

Pleased by his men's mastery of the situation, Denethor took a slow step toward her. "You cannot prevent the inevitable, Mistress Longbottom," he said, assessing her with his frigid eyes, and finding her lacking. "Death will find us all this night; I merely choose the manner in which my son and I shall meet it. 'Tis all I can do to honour him now."

What an absolutely colossal misery guts! What an unbelievably spineless wretch! What a shocking excuse for a father!

"Honour him? You haven't honoured Faramir since I first met you. In fact, one of the first things you did was make absolutely clear the contempt in which you held him. To strangers, no less! So don't pretend to care for him now because it suits you. You're not fooling me. You're failing your child and your country with this shameless conduct."

"How dare you!" he cried. "I love my son! I love my country!"

"Then prove it," she challenged. "The war will only be lost if you give up, so don't. Don't give that nincompoop Sauron the satisfaction. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and be the Steward Gondor deserves. Lead her people to victory. I'll help you. We all will." Her tone changed, became softer, more coaxing. "Do it for Faramir. It's not too late for you to deserve your son, Denethor. He loves you. Did you know he came to see me while I was in prison? To try to make me think less ill of you?"

Not that it had worked.

"He's a better son than you have given him credit for. He's caring, compassionate, wise, kind and very intelligent. He is a strong man, and he'll be a strong Steward, when the time comes. If the time comes. You gave Faramir life once before, Denethor; give it to him again. It's the very least you owe him."

She waited with baited breath to see if her words had any effect, ignoring the scuffling and protests and clash of swords behind her as her eyes met the Steward's. They held each other's gaze for many long seconds.

And then she saw it: the flicker of defiance, of almost smug superiority, and she knew it was no use. Even before he hoisted himself back onto the table, she knew he had heard her, but either not absorbed or just plain ignored her pleas. Covering himself with the soft blanket, he took his stricken son's hand in his own and gave the toneless order to have her removed.

That was it. That was most definitely _it_!

Infuriated by his indifference, and his readiness to kill his own child, she renewed her struggles. The guard clamped down hard on her arms. Unable to aim her wand at a height, she settled instead for jerking her hand in the direction of the table and fired off a spell. All activity ceased in the wake of the almighty c_rrrackkk_ it produced, and then pandemonium broke loose.

The table split in half down its length, sending Denethor sliding – with a very loud shout of surprise - off to the right, and poor, wounded Faramir slipping off to the left. Augusta's captor dropped her in shock. Worried guards cried out and rushed to the Steward's aid. It was their undoing; the elderly witch fired off a powerful Incarcerous spell, and ropes shot from her wand, winding themselves ever and again around the speeding Gondorians. Yelped in shock as they were collectively trussed up, they toppled towards Denethor, who barely shot out of the way in time to avoid being squashed.

Satisfied, she then headed for Faramir, having to dodge one of the remaining guards. He tried to block her again until Pippin dived with open arms at his legs and both went crashing to the ground. A final grizzly guard took his place, grabbing her by the wrist and wrenching her wand free. Quick as a flash, Beregond jumped him from behind, and there was a three-way struggle as the guard tried to free himself of Beregond and Augusta tried to free her wand of the guard.

"Let go of that this instant!" she cried, tugging furiously at his fingers. But her efforts only served to strengthen his resolve; they curled tighter around the wand, paling with the effort to maintain an iron grip. Terrified that he would snap it in two, she was seriously considering sinking her teeth into his meaty wrist when a scream from behind alerted her to danger.

"Mrs Longbottom! _Mrs Longbottom!_"

Whirling around, Augusta half-expected to see another guard heading her way. What she did not expect to see was Denethor pull a knife from his robe and head towards Faramir.

"You will not take my son from me!" he screamed as he circled the head of the ruined table to where poor, bleeding Faramir lay squashed between the table slope and the curving wall. Horrified, Augusta temporarily abandoned her wand and leapt forward with her hands outstretched.

"Denethor, stop! Don't! You'll never be able to live with yourself!"

"I have no intention of living, madam! That is the whole point."

Desperate to close the distance between them, she put more speed into her step, springing over cracked stone and a lonely shield. But she would never make it in time to save Faramir. Not without her wand.

And Denethor knew it.

Easily reaching his son before her, he flashed her a triumphant glance; yet deep within his glittering eyes, there was also hopelessness and regret. Knowing Faramir had but seconds to live, Augusta felt fear for the young man, who reminded her so much of Frank, flash through her. In her haste to reach him, she misjudged her footing and stumbled over a piece of the shattered table, striking her forehead on one of the guards' fallen helmets. Too stunned to move, she could only watch helplessly as Denethor bent to one knee at Faramir's head and raised his arm ...

"No!"

Pippin's desperate shout rang through the Hall as he shot from behind Augusta and launched himself across Faramir just as the blade descended; it sliced through his uniform and plunged deep into his left arm.

The resulting shriek of pain was so reminiscent of a child's that the air stilled as fathers everywhere instinctively stopped fighting to seek the source of the cry. Their faces registered complete shock as it became clear what their once proud leader had been prepared to do – had indeed already done, though mercifully not with the result he might have wished. Shaking her head free of the cobwebs, Augusta used the distraction to pull herself up.

"My Lady Longbottom, your staff!"

Beregond's voice made her head whip round, and she fought nausea at the quick motion. But all feelings of discomfort fled when she noticed that the Guard of the Citadel had incapacitated his opponent and was now tossing her her beloved wand .Catching it deftly, she cleared a quick path to Denethor, who was even now pulling the knife from Pippin's flesh. Worried that he was preparing to use it again, she Banished the offending weapon and Petrified him.

It was a very pale and rattled Pippin who pulled himself away from Faramir.

"Mrs Longbottom, he's bleeding again. Faramir's bleeding again."

So was the hobbit, who made for a pitiful sight as he clutched his leaking arm whilst rocking worriedly over the Steward's son. Wasting no time, she ordered Beregond to keep an eye on the assembled guards, conjured a temporary binding for Pippin's wound, and fired a Reparo at the ruined table before levitating Faramir onto it. Everyone cleared a path, allowing her free movement around the table, and she distinctly heard someone mumble 'the dead do not bleed.'

"Of course they don't!" she barked. "That's what we've been trying to tell you all along: Faramir is still alive, no thanks to you lot!"

With a huff, she turned her attention to her patient. Faramir's bloody shirt testified to the truth of Pippin's words.

"Don't worry, my good fellow," she told the unconscious lord, undoing his shirt buttons and gently easing the sticky fabric aside. "I'm no medi-witch, but I haven't lived this long without gaining some experience in treating war wounds."

True, they were mainly magical war wounds, but still.

A wave of her wand cleared the surface blood from Faramir's trunk, leaving her looking at three wounds scattered across chest and abdomen. They began oozing again within seconds. Knowing she had to act fast, Augusta positioned herself over the worst and gently pried the edges apart. Faramir, moaned weakly, but nobody dared challenge her.

"I am terribly sorry, young man, but this simply won't work with a superficial Episkey. Your injuries are too severe. I'll have to aim the wand directly inside and close the damaged vessels first, otherwise you'll still bleed to death."

Faramir didn't respond; he more than likely didn't even hear her.

"It's okay, Mrs Longbottom. I've got him," said Pippin bravely, clambering clumsily onto the table. He situated himself awkwardly at the top and lay Faramir's dark head in his lap, then proceeded to speak softly to him of the Shire and all its wonders.

Rolling her head in a mixture of amusement and fondness, she set about treating each wound, dealing first with the inner damage before closing the torn flesh. Soon his flesh was whole again. Unfortunately, the danger was far from over; Faramir had lost far too much blood, he remained deathly pale, his body slick with sweat, and he was dangerously feverish. Augusta was deeply worried about him. At most, she had stopped any further blood loss, but his condition remained grave enough that it might not be enough to guarantee survival, and her medical knowledge simply didn't stretch to treat any unseen infections. Given the time which had lapsed so far without treatment, it was highly probable he was suffering from one, and that might surely kill him in his weakened state.

Having done what she could, she sighed and turned her attention to Pippin. Removing the binding, she treated the hobbit's wound in the same fashion (he gritted his teeth, but didn't emit so much as a peep of protest. What a splendid little mini-Muggle!). Fortunately, his injury, though deep, was recent enough – and clean enough - that she didn't fear infection on his behalf.

"There now," she said briskly. "That will ache for a while, but the worst of the damage has been dealt with."

She conjured a sling around Pippin's arm (he smiled gratefully, if weakly) before conjuring a stretcher. That done, she turned her attention to the guards, who had been watching her cautiously.

"Now, gentlemen. You will carry your captain with all due care to the hospital ..."

"Houses of Healing, Mrs Longbottom."

"... er, Healing Houses," she amended. "You will make sure he gets there quickly and safely, and ensure that he is seen immediately by a medi-Muggle."

"Healer, Mrs Longbottom."

"Yes, yes. One of them, too. If, however, gentlemen, you don't do precisely as I have ordered, I will make it known throughout the city that you were prepared to stand idly by and watch while your Steward callously murdered his son. Now, I happen to know that Faramir is held in enormous regard by the citizens of Minas Tirith, so I don't think they'll take too kindly to that."

"Who are you to order us?" demanded one of the guards, still reluctant to betray his Steward despite what he had just witnessed.

"Why, I am the Green Witch, of course. The key word there, my not-so-good fellow, is _witch_. So if you don't want to spend the rest of your life with a bird's eye view of your own intestines – something which it is well within my power to achieve – then you will obey my orders until the Lord Faramir is quite his old self again. Have I made myself clear?"

Alarmed at the thought of having their heads thrust up their posteriors by a wand-wielding, and very angry, old woman, the entire group nodded furiously. Except her stubborn new friend, of course.

"Witch you may be, madam, but you are not our lord. Do as you wish with me, but I shall not obey one who has so brazenly assaulted the noble Steward of Gondor, and in this hallowed place, no less!"

His grey eyes flashed at her defiantly, daring her to attack him. Instead, she huffed in exasperation. With a flick of her wand she freed him from the confining ropes. Beregond (who had managed to yank his blade free of Boromir's stone body) stood guard over the remaining soldiers as they shot their captain a collective nervous glance.

"Take a look at your Steward," she barked. "Go on. Look at him! What do you see?"

The greying captain's eyes swung towards Denethor, who remained Petrified in a half-crouch by the wall, face twisted with anger, eyes burning with madness, and his raised fist still dripping with Pippin's blood. It was quite, quite obvious to anyone with eyes that the Steward was several hairs short of a toupee.

"I see my lord sorely incapacitated by your staff," he growled stubbornly.

"Wrong. What you see is someone driven berserk with grief and fear," she corrected. "Someone who has spent heaven knows how long meddling with magical artefacts he oughtn't to have, and has, as a direct result, been successfully hoodwinked by a wizard more devious and dark than even Voldemort – which is saying a lot. Your Steward is a leader who has been manipulated into believing his enemy has won a battle that hasn't even been decided yet, and he would rather die by his own hand than Sauron's. He would rather die than attempt to rally his people to their own defence! He is a father who has already lost one son, and is more than ready to murder the only child he has left before killing himself. Now, my good fellow, look at the son he claims is dead. _Look at him!_ If you can honestly swear that that poor chap has breathed his last, I will snap my wand in two this instant and hand myself over to your care."

Reluctantly, the captain's gaze now transferred to Faramir. He was clearly tempted to be contrary, given the incentive, but only a fool (or Denethor) could deny the laboured rise and fall of Faramir's chest.

Augusta sniffed impatiently.

"Well? Does he look dead to you?"

"Near enough, I fear."

"That is not what I asked."

"I know well what you asked. Nay, the Lord Faramir lives."

"And what crime is he guilty of that deserves death by the Steward's own hand? What shocking act has this devious delinquent committed that calls for execution without even so much as a trial?"

"_Desist, madam!_" yelled the furious guard, taking a bold step in her direction. His body was rigid with outrage. "How dare you insult the Lord Faramir thus! He is the truest, most honourable and bravest captain there has ever been! I would die for him!"

"And yet – despite your allegedly high opinion of the poor fellow – you were still willingly to meekly stand aside and let his clearly deranged father murder him in cold blood. And for no other reason than that his father is the Steward of Gondor. Did you even bother to check whether Faramir was alive when your splendid comrade here -" she indicated Pippin with a nod of her head "- pointed it out to him an hour ago? Hmm? Any of you?"

Her opponent's eyes flickered first to the frozen Steward, then to the prone form of Faramir; his expression torn between loyalty and regret. Finally they dropped to the ground and remained fixed there. His comrades looked equally discomfited.

"Yes, that's what I thought. You should all be thoroughly ashamed of yourselves."

"The Lord Denethor is our Steward, madam," muttered the captain softly. "He commands our fealty and respect, and we give it gladly."

Augusta shook her head in disgust. "Your 'fealty' almost killed an innocent man – one you claim to admire. Where is the respect in that?"

Feeling that enough time had been wasted in idle chit chat, and certain that she would find no more opposition, Augusta freed the remaining guards and set them about transporting Faramir to the Houses of Healing.

"What about Denethor?" asked Pippin, staring at his liege lord with a very guilty expression.

"I'll worry about _him_. You, on the other hand, had best make sure that our new friends take Faramir straight to the Healing Houses," replied the elderly witch. She could sense Pippin's doubtful expression as he looked up at her. "Oh, don't worry! I won't hurt him. He _is_ still the Steward."

With that assurance, Pippin nodded, spun on his heel, and dashed after Faramir's litter.

"What are you going to do with him, lady?" asked Beregond, now flanking her right side. The (very tall) man seemed very reluctant to stare directly at his frozen lord.

Hmm. It was an excellent question when Pippin posed it, and it remained so now. What _was_ she to do with Denethor?

They stared at each other; him with loathing in his eyes, her with her brow wrinkling (even further) into a frown. She couldn't leave him Petrified in a corner for the rest of his life (however much she wanted to) because he was, technically speaking, still the Steward of Gondor. He was still the leader of his people (until Aragorn showed up). Yet neither could she set him loose in case he followed Faramir to the Houses of Healing to finish the job he had started. He might even fire off a few more dubious commands, given the chance (such as 'burn the witch'). Given the Gondorians' rigid adherence to tradition and their willingness to follow Denethor's orders at the drop of a hat, the mad fellow could do all sorts of damage before he offed himself. And all to her, no doubt.

Not that she was too worried about herself. It was Faramir that concerned her. And, more immediately, Denethor. If the man ever regained his senses, he may never be able to live with the guilt of having almost murdered his own son, albeit in a fit of madness. As much as she disliked the silly fellow, she wouldn't wish that on him. But if she freed him and he committed suicide to spare himself the inevitable mental torment his actions would evoke, how would she live with herself? What would she tell Faramir?

What a calamity. And what to do?

Edging her way further to the other side of the table, she studied the glowering man in the heavy cape. The Palantír he once held was nowhere in evidence, having rolled behind the head of the table out of his reach. The only weapon he held now was his empty, bloodied fist, frozen high in the air before it delivered a second strike. As her gaze clashed once more with his, she recognised the hatred it held, but there was also humiliation and despair.

Regret filled her: it had not been her intention to make the once proud leader look weak in front of his men. Strictly speaking, of course he had contributed to that mainly by himself, but it would serve no purpose to point that out, and would probably only make him feel even worse. As a parent who had often blamed herself for not sparing her own child his current misery, she had not the heart to do that to him. So the choice remained: free him, or leave him?

"Lady Witch?"

Beregond's deep timbre roused her, the urgency in his voice compounded by the dull boom of a marauding missile somewhere down in the lower levels of the city outside. Battle was not only being fought in the House of the Stewards. It was time to stop thinking, and time to start acting!

"I hear you, young fellow. I was just weighing our options. As it happens, I have quite decided what must be done. Be a good chap and collect that magical ball of his from behind the table and bring it to me. For goodness' sakes don't touch it with your bare hands; wrap it in your cloak, or something."

"It shall be as you wish," he said, removing his dark mantle and slipping behind the marble table.

While he was busy, Augusta raised her wand and Banished the blood from Denethor's hand. It seemed only decent. Once Beregond was safely back at her side, she attempted to shrink the Palantír so that she might slip it into her pocket. As it was, whatever arts the globe had been created with resisted her magic, and she was reduced to Enlarging her pocket, then bewitching it into a state of weightlessness so that the heavy orb didn't throw her off balance. That done, she looked for volunteers amidst the remaining guards to stay and watch over their Steward.

"I am going to lift the spell that's currently immobilising him, but only on the strict understanding that you are all fully aware your leader is suffering from a temporary sickness of the mind ..."

Hopefully temporary.

"... no doubt caused by all the stress he's had to deal with of late. And no wonder. It can't be easy running a country on the brink of war! I am certain that he'll be quite himself once again after we've dealt with those marauding Mordorians outside …"

Unless Mr White had finished them all off in her absence, which she doubted. Though her serial-killing nephew/grandfather might have.

"... but until that happens, he is to be considered far too ill to carry out the duties his office demands of him. And as his son is also incapacitated, you'll have to look to the Prince Imrahil as your temporary leader. I haven't met him, personally, but I hear he's an absolutely smashing chap. As he's currently down in the first level, you'll have to allow me to anticipate his orders for the present: Denethor is to remain here. He is not to be allowed anywhere near the city until I return. I'll stop off at the Healing Houses and have them send someone down to do what they can for him, but don't let him anywhere near another guard in case he starts ordering them to do stupid things – like have his son returned to him so he can finish what he started!" She glowered warningly at the grim-faced men, but no one objected. Pleased, she added: "It might also be an excellent idea to keep your swords sheathed, chaps. We can't have your employer impaling himself on one of them ..."

Deliberately or otherwise.

"... and - no matter what he says - do _not_ bring him wood and oil! Is that clear?"

She made a point of Banishing the fuel and kindling which had scattered all over the floor during the earlier struggle (just in case), and the captain who had challenged her moments ago shared a look with his companions before agreeing to her conditions.

"Right-o. Well, then. Time to lift one spell ..."

One silent incantation and a flick of her wand took care of that. Immediately, Denethor sprang up and began storming her way.

"... and replace it with another. Don't panic, chaps! I'm not going to hurt him. He'll simply be a little less homicidal, that's all."

True, it was perhaps unnecessary to make the Cheering Charm quite _so_ powerful, but then again, Denethor was quite the most miserable beggar she had ever encountered. It was going to take more than one helpless little run-of-the-mill spell to put a smile on his grumpy face.

The jet of light thudded noiselessly against Denethor's forehead, and the effect was almost instantaneous. He froze in his tracks and, after the initial look of surprise wore off, his grim-lipped features blossomed into an expression of almost joy. It looked so foreign on his face that Augusta had to blink to make sure she wasn't imagining it. But no; Denethor's thin lips had curved into something that could only be described as a smile, and his eyes, once bright with anger, practically sparkled with glee.

"How wondrous!" he cried, clapping his hands and rubbing them together fiercely. "The House of the Stewards! I have not visited here since my father passed from the circles of the world. Ah! And who do we have here? The ever indecently-clad aunt of an Elf lord come to pay her respects to my ancestors. Madam, you might have endeavoured to cover your legs in this hallowed place at least. Were my kin not already long departed, the sight of your withered limbs would have sent them straight to their graves!"

Withered limbs? How very dare he!

An impulse to hex him into next week seized her then, but Augusta resisted it admirably. Rude Denethor she could deal with; mad, tragic Denethor was another matter altogether. So she let the insult slide.

Completely indifferent to the magnanimous gesture, Denethor grabbed one of his stunned personal guards by the arm and began marching the poor man around the mausoleum. His features were greatly animated as he paused at every vault to offer a historical tidbit, the broad smile on his face testament to the fact that he relished the task.

"Here lies Vorondil, who slew the kine from which the Horn of Gondor is made. What is not commonly known is that his aim was poor, and though he wounded it, the beast shattered his knee just as he dismounted his horse and bent to deliver the death blow. Thus the expression 'let sleeping kine lie' came into being. And here -" he dragged the guard onwards "- here rests Dior, Ninth Ruling Steward, who perished without producing a successor." Denethor bent his head towards the bemused soldier and whispered (very loudly). "His breath was so offensive that no lady could bear to be near him for more than five seconds. Alas, it takes more than _that_ paltry span of time to sire an heir, and thus it was that 'Dior the Disagreeable' died childless."

The Steward chortled, vastly amused by the tale. So he continued in this vein, reeling off heretofore unknown nuggets of scintillating (and some downright salacious) gossip at one vault after another, completely absorbed both by his task and by his unwillingly captive audience.

Satisfied that he seemed to be getting along splendidly, Augusta happily left him to the care of his personal guards. Ashamed of their previous lack of inaction, they swore to her that they would keep him safe until she returned.

"I shall accompany you back to the City proper, if I may, Lady," stated Beregond. "I am keen to see that the White Captain has reached the Houses of Healing, and is there receiving all due care from our healers."

"If you wouldn't mind, I'd much prefer you to stay and keep an eye on the Steward and his men," replied the elderly witch, in a low voice. She would have been glad of the company, but not at the expense of leaving Denethor alone with guards who had been only too happy to obey the Steward's mad whims not minutes ago, regardless of the fact they had promised to behave themselves since. "I'll make sure you are sent word of Faramir's condition as soon as the healers have stabilised him."

Disappointment clouded his features momentarily, but Beregond quickly rallied his spirits. "It shall be as you wish, lady," he promised, nodding his head graciously.

Pleased to have his agreement (such a strapping fellow!), Augusta bid him farewell and exited the House of the Stewards, closing the doors firmly behind her. It was still dark outside, but something was different. Puzzled, she paused at the porch. Battle was once again in full swing, the crashing and booming of missiles, and the harshness of voices raised in combat over the city now louder than ever before. But it was not that which disturbed her.

Absently sidestepping the (still frozen) guards at the door, she raised her wand, narrowed blue eyes sweeping the immediate area. The path to the city was clear – Faramir had obviously made it to the Houses of Healing, thank goodness.

A curious sound made her stiffen then – a sort of whoosh - and Augusta looked to the heavens. Though the darkness seemed a little lighter than of late, it was still difficult to spot anything clearly. Had there indeed been something there, it had either left or soared too high for her now to see. Could it have been one of those blasted noseghouls? No. They loved the sound of their own voices too much; she would have heard it screeching before she ever saw it coming.

Cursing her own paranoia (politely), Augusta shook her head, squared her shoulders, and – completely forgetting about the Petrified guards - set forth towards the city, ready to give the ghastly Mordorians a very large piece of her mind.

Merlin help them.

A chilly wind greeted the determined granny as she made her way up the stairs and across the spur leading back to the city proper. It tugged playfully at those grey hairs which had worked loose from their bun during her exertions in the grand mausoleum, and they tickled her cheek ferociously. Irritated, she swiped at them as she marched, though the gesture was ineffective. Next she tried tucking them behind her ears, but the wind was growing stronger, and more playful. Every time she settled a strand behind her ear it simply blew it free, so that she was soon torn between swatting hair and scratching her itchy cheeks. Growing more annoyed, she gave it up as a bad job and was just about to secure the stray hairs into place with magic when it happened: screeches, high-pitched and dreadful, alerted her to the presence of Nazgûl ahead.

Hah! So she _had_ heard wings after all!

In a flash her wand was trained at the fell beasts bearing rapidly down upon her. A Patronus burst forth, chasing them away, but two more came hot on their heels. They veered left and right before reaching her, no doubt unwilling to tackle her dreadful shiny dolphin. Suddenly they swerved back toward her; furthermore, one of the previous two had eluded her Patronus and joined its brothers, and they swept up the spur together, a trio of malodorous miscreants spreading their influenza-inducing chill wherever they travelled.

How disgraceful!

Once more she fired at them, once more they disbanded as, this time, two dolphins raced to meet the ugly creatures. But she was so busy tending to the threat ahead that she didn't see the one behind her; didn't realise that a _fifth_ Nazgûl had circled the mountain and was soaring silently down Mindolluin atop its loathsome mount, readying to snatch her from behind whilst its brethren distracted her ...

Augusta didn't even have time to turn and face her attacker before it sank its talons into her coat, securing her firmly by the shoulders. It lifted her high into the air. Within seconds it was joined by its brothers, and together they swept toward the Pelennor. Greatly put out, and more than a little alarmed, she began wriggling in the fell beast's horrible grip.

"Let go of me, you despicable creature! I said let me go!"

Thankfully, the creature only had her by the shoulders, and not the arms; but the restriction of movement was still awkward to work with, and she struggled to aim her wand at the beast's belly.

Her demands elicited a horrible kind of gurgling screech from the Nazgûl above. It bent forward on its steed, so that it was almost hugging the creature's neck as it craned its own to look down at her. It was laughing. Laughing! At _her!_

"By all means use thine arts if thou darest, Witch. But forget not that even if thou achievest thy much desired liberation, thou shalt still plummet to thy death upon the City below."

Daring a glance beyond her sensibly-clad feet, Augusta paled as the sight of paving, roofs and fountains, now dozens of feet below her. There was no doubt about it: if she fell, she would die. Even she couldn't Apparate mid-fall, nor would she dare it in mid-air while still in the (stinking) creature's clutches – not unless she wanted to give poor Mistress Írildë the mother of all frights by suddenly turning up in her employer's study with a couple of very uninvited (and very unhygienic) guests. Frustrated, she lowered her wand, forced into biding her time until an alternative presented itself.

If one ever did before it was too late.

"A wise choice. 'Twould be a pity for thee to die ere my master had the pleasure of entertaining thee."

His master? Merlin's beard! But that was Sauron! And he was in Mordor ...

"Yet ere we depart, let us take a turn around the City. Let her people bear witness to the impotence of their champion. Let them witness thy humiliation, and despair as the Green Witch is carried beyond all aid to the Houses of Lamentation! Let the Men of the West know what fools they were for ever placing their faith in thee! Their feeble minds shall crumble soon enough when they realise that there is none so mighty that they will not falter when faced with the might of the Dark Lord. This City shall fall within the hour!"

The horror of her situation hit her then: she had been outwitted by a noseghoul; she was now trapped in the clutches of its very smelly dragon-bird; aforementioned noseghoul was crowing at her victoriously (how terribly annoying); the citizens of Minas Tirith were about to take a very serious blow to their morale (not that _she_ flattered herself into thinking they thought so highly of her, but the drama king above her seemed rather certain of it); there was no escape for her at present other than certain death (how terribly alarming); and she was heading straight for a showdown with _the_ most unpopular person in Arda - and she hadn't even had the chance to make herself presentable first.

Sauron would think her a slattern!

But worse, much worse, than the prospect of appearing before the Dark Lord with a grubby face and untidy hair, was the realisation that if she didn't come up with some way to free herself from her current predicament – and soon - then she might never see Neville again.

Ever.

As if sensing her thoughts, and taking evil delight in each of them, her horrible escorts gave a collective screech before soaring victoriously over the burning city with the desperate granny hooked firmly in their clutches ...

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Author's Note_: Some dialogue and text taken from The Lord of the Rings, The Return of the King, Book Five, Chapter 7: _The Pyre of Denethor_.

**Fic Recommendation: **Neville Longbottom and the Sword of Gryffindor** by Imbeni - a seventh-year fic. Seriously, folks, this is one talented author. Her words flow beautifully, the characterisations are spot on; her writing is descriptive and addictive. Shockingly enough, her fic has only a handful of reviews, so please pop over, read her fic, and give her some well-deserved feedback.**

Now, on to NQAM ... I've only proofed this once or twice, so there are bound to be some errors I've missed. But I'll post it just now so you don't have to wait any longer, and give it another proofing tomorrow. No doubt I'll kick myself for it then :)

In all honesty, I'm not one hundred percent satisfied with this update. It's certainly not one of Augusta's funnier chapters, but given the subject matter, I didn't want to be too disrespectful. There was also the question of how far to go with Denethor, and how Augusta should deal with him once Faramir was removed from his clutches. It didn't seem right for him to be kept immobilised with magic, or trussed up like a turkey while his guards looked helplessly on; so, like it or not, I took the only other option I felt was open to me. Hope you enjoy it anyway, for the cliffy if nothing else!

Kara's Aunty ;)


	49. Radagast's Army

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. and Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

**Credit: **thainsbook dot net. theoriginalseries dot com/traveltimes; rspb dot org dot uk, uk dot whatbird dot com, lifestyle dot iloveindia dot com, thewayofthecrow dot com, vincenzopenteriani dot org, oiseaux-birds dot com, theowlfoundation dot ca, royalsocietypublishing dot org. chilternsaonb dot org. nationalgeographic dot co dot uk.

**Chapter 49**

* * *

_Helm's Deep_

_Third Age 10th-11th March 3019_

The plan to combat the threat of Saruman's crebain was simple: Warn the Rohirrim of the impending battle, 'lest they mistake it for an evil omen of sorts', or so said Radagast. Persuade the Thrihyrne crows to temporarily vacate their nests, a task which would prove difficult given that they would soon begin laying eggs. Use aforementioned nests to house 'Radagast's Army', or the RA for short. This was Fred's idea. He had initially suggested 'Irascible Radagast's Army' (well out of Radagast's earshot), though Dumbledore vetoed it immediately as the initialism also stood for a Muggle terrorist organisation. And because it was rude. The Brown Wizard, however, was so surprised to have an army of birds named after him (and by Fred, no less) that his attitude to the young man mellowed. A bit.

Finally, Dumbledore and Fred would enchant the nests en masse so the crebain would see only crows within, and not the eagles, hawks, goshawks, kettles, etc that were waiting to ambush them. Once the crebain appeared settled, Radagast – in his eagle form – would sound the attack. Should the crebain, for any reason, realise they were being lured into a trap before they landed, Radagast would hail the second contingent of the RA hidden along the northern and southern arms of the cliffs to cut off any escape routes (including snipe, who – though not birds of prey, per se - would actively delay and confuse the crebain by means of their swift, erratic flight patterns).

Thereafter battle should, theoretically, be swift and decisive, given the numbers expected for the RA. With the crebain disposed of and their cargo quickly destroyed by Radagast's clever little querindae berries, the trio believed they had foreseen every eventuality.

It was always the ones they couldn't see which bothered Dumbledore the most.

**XXX**

As it was, everything proceeded to plan initially. That evening the three Istari Apparated into the valley known as the Deeping-coomb. The triple-peaked Thrihyrne towered majestically above them, its welcoming arms creating the very ravine in which they stood – the very arms which would soon house an army the likes of which had never been seen before. The high cliffs on either side blocked the Sun, though the fortress ahead was sufficiently lit with torches, and the sound of many men engaged in labour testified to the fact that none had yet sought their beds for the night.

Having made their way to the Dike, the magical trio were challenged by an old man in armour, called Gamling. His lined face lit up when they introduced themselves.

"More Wizards! Can this be?" he exclaimed, staring at Dumbledore's incredible robes in wonder. A frown crossed his grisly mien. "If you are friend to Saruman, then you may not proceed. Indeed, it would be in your best interests to turn about and leave ere I fetch my lord, Erkenbrand, to detain you all."

"Fortunately, your lord happens to be the very man we must speak with." Dumbledore offered the old man a reassuring smile. "Rest assured, Saruman is no friend of ours. Gandalf, however, is. "

"Gandalf! There is a welcome name! What seek you here when the battle is done? Your aid would be put to better use in Gondor, where I understand Gandalf now is."

"I don't doubt it. In fact, Gondor may well be our next destination," replied Dumbledore patiently. "Nevertheless, we must speak with the Lord Erkenbrand first."

"'Tis a matter of great urgency!" growled Radagast impatiently.

"Yeah. Take us to your leader. Please," said Fred, grinning as he leaned over to Dumbledore and whispered, "I've always wanted to use that in context."

Outnumbered, the Rohirrim conceded graciously.

Soldiers and captives lowered weapons and tools in open curiosity when they passed. Whispers and excited cries followed in their wake, along with more wide-eyed stares when Gamling escorted them past two long burial pits and up the long causeway. Before them, a significant hole had been blown into the main gateway of the fortress wall.

"Forgive the disarray, but the Enemy used weapons we have never seen the likes of before," apologised Gamling. "It has caused such destruction that we have only recently managed to clear the rubble from both sides of the gates."

He indicated a small mountain of boulders and rocks to the left of the causeway.

"Never before has Helm's Deep been breached. 'Tis not as great a breach as it might have been, that being said, yet still a blow to our pride. We shall rebuild it, of course, but this must wait until after the war ends, if we are fortunate in the outcome. Until then, the Deep remains vulnerable, and we must guard it as best we may."

"A difficult task, I would imagine, when there are so few of you stationed here, and most of those still repairing damage elsewhere," remarked Dumbledore.

Gamling thrust out his chest proudly. "Few or nay, we are Rohirrim. We shall die defending our land if we must."

"Let us hope it doesn't come to that. In the meantime, perhaps I might offer you some assistance?"

Without waiting for a reply, he pulled out his wand and, raising it high, pointed in the direction of the pile of rubble.

"You might want to step back," advised Fred, grabbing both Radagast and Gamling by the arm and pulling them away from the mangled gateway, allowing Dumbledore to perform the mother of all Reparo's.

Silently flourishing his wand, the rubble that had been so painstakingly cleared from the causeway flew high into the air at the former headmaster's command. Everyone on the field stopped cold, watching in shock as boulders sprang aloft, and fragments, chips and dust swirled ever more tightly together in the air until they had reformed as sizeable rectangular slabs of stone. Rohirrim surged onto the battlements from the other side of the Deeping Wall, shouting and pointing at the mysteriously floating masonry in wonder. Another wave of Dumbledore's wand sent the finished articles speeding back towards the Deep.

Several men yelled aloud in terror, thinking they were under attack once more; but terror turned to amazement, then jubilation, as the gateway slowly reformed itself, brick by brick. Only the gates themselves were absent, having been either removed elsewhere for repair, Dumbledore presumed, or destroyed beyond the hope of it.

Despite this. within minutes, it was as if Helm's Deep had never known the violence of Saruman's blasting powder. Seeking the cause of this miracle, cheers and applause rang out when they spotted the wizardly trio on the causeway. Dumbledore bowed theatrically, eliciting laughter and more cheers.

Gamling rushed ahead to inspect the newly reinstated gateway, and spent several moments running his hands lovingly over the stones.

"Show off," accused Fred with a grin.

"Merely greasing the wheels," returned Dumbledore.

"You're lucky my dad is such a fan of Muggles, or I wouldn't have a clue what that meant."

"Well _I_ do not know what it means," grumbled Radagast.

"I simply assured us a good reception with their leader, in the event he requires more persuasion than his friend," Dumbledore explained as he beamed at the jubilant soldiers.

"Clever show off," remarked Radagast.

"I can't deny it," replied the former headmaster shamelessly as Fred sniggered into his hand. "Shall we?"

To a swell of cheers they approached the gateway, where Gamling had now been joined by several high-ranking soldiers. One of them, an enormous blond in full mail, headed their way.

"Hail to you, good Wizards! Welcome, one and all!" he cried as he approached.

"Seems like you didn't need to grease anything after all," observed Fred in surprise. "I mean, we might be about to storm his castle, for all he knows."

"Not when we have just spared him many days work," retorted Radagast (almost affably. Flattering his vanity had worked wonders on their relationship). "Would you prefer he drew his blade and challenged us?"

Fred rolled his eyes. "Yeah. 'Cos I could use another enemy. Not enough Middle-earthlings hate me yet. It's depressing."

"Radagast, perhaps you would care to do the introductions?" suggested Dumbledore, as the other party drew closer. "Our new friends will have heard of you sooner than they will of us."

Barely had he finished when the hulking blond leader drew to a halt before them.

"Well met, friends!" greeted the Rohirrim anew. "I am Erkenbrand, Lord of the Westfold. Am I correct in assuming that you are Istari of the order of the Green Witch? If so, you are most welcome here!"

Radagast stepped forward, offering a brief incline of his grey head.

"Well met, Erkenbrand. I am Radagast the Brown; not of the order of which you speak, but of the Maiar of Valinor."

There were many astonished exclamations among the party behind Erkenbrand.

"Radagast the Brown!" said Erkenbrand, looking amazed. "But you are the fabled tender of beasts and plants who lives many leagues hence by the eaves of Mirkwood, are you not?"

He received another nod, this one of confirmation, and the Brown Wizard looked at their potential host curiously afterwards.

"I did not realise my name was known in mortal realms so far from Rhosgobel," he said.

The blond smiled. "Indeed it is. We have heard it on occasion from the faithless Saruman, curse him! Though that was before we knew he was faithless and yet held him in honour."

"In that case, I am surprised you have not slain me where I stand," was the dry retort.

Laughter rang out.

"Slay you? Slay Radagast the Brown, whom the Fool of Isengard holds in such low esteem? I think not. Anyone Saruman despises must surely be our friend."

The double-edged compliment threw the Maia off guard for a moment.

"Low esteem, you say? Then I count myself flattered. Low esteem from Saruman is as high praise from a friend."

"Then high is the praise indeed! Rohan has more regard for one who nurtures than one who conquers, regardless of what the Traitor of Isengard says." Erkenbrand regarded the Brown Wizard's companions with undisguised interest. "And who are your companions, who by their kindness have rebuilt out gateway?"

Stepping aside, Radagast waved a gnarled hand their way.

"My Lord Erkenbrand, allow me to present to you Albus Dumbledore, known as the Purple Wizard, and Fred Weasley, known as the Red Wizard."

"That's Dumbledore the _Deep_ Purple, and Fred the Red," sighed the former Weasley twin.

"Good evening, Erkenbrand. Please feel free to call me Albus, or Dumbledore. Or whatever makes you comfortable. I've even been called 'a doddering old nincompoop' on occasion, although the lady concerned was not as agreeable as she might have been."

Several men blinked at the smiling wizard, startled by his apparent bluntness. Fortunately, their leader took it in his stride.

"We are indebted to you for the repair of our gateway, Albus Dumbledore. Your kindness has spared us many days of toil, and will allow us to begin crafting new gates all the sooner." The Rohirrim turned his gaze to Fred. "Weasley? You are not kin to the Lady Molly, who aided in the defence of this very fortress less than one week since?"

"She's my mother," revealed the redhead proudly. "Loud, isn't she?"

"I cannot speak to that personally, for – alas! - I had not the pleasure of meeting either her or her young Wizard charge. My men and I arrived late to the battle, and were thereafter much occupied with clearance and repairs. But I am reliably informed that she was mighty indeed to behold, and slew many enemies on our behalf! You are most welcome here, son of the White Witch, Shieldwife of Rohan! Come now, guests! Let us not idle away our new friendship on a doorstep, no matter how grand. I see by your expressions that you have much on your mind. Allow me to offer you the hospitality of the Hornburg whilst we talk."

Keen to get to the matter at hand, the trio followed him through the newly reformed, if doorless, gateway, then up a small walkway until they reached the staircase that led to the fortress proper. Within moments, Erkenbrand had shown them into the very same hall where Molly and Neville had dined with the King of Rohan mere days before. He stopped to give instructions to one of his men that food be brought to them, and while he did so, Dumbledore, Fred and Radagast surveyed their surroundings.

Torches flickered in brackets throughout the stone hall, whose walls were scattered with tapestries and banners. Many tall men milled about, either in groups or at the rear of the chamber over a long table piled with charts. Erkenbrand rejoined his guests, leading them to the other end, through a rear exit into a curving corridor, narrow and dim. Finally their host ushered all three into what seemed to be a large study or conference room of sorts. Stepping inside, they found it well-lit, with a basic, though well-crafted table large enough to seat ten people. There was but one window at the rear of the room, a narrow slit crafted more for tactical observation across the valley outside than for the pleasure of any view.

"Pray be seated," he invited them.

Once settled, each with a mug of ale, Dumbledore ceded to Radagst and the other wizard gave a brief, but succinct explanation of their mission whilst Erkenbrand listened in silence.

"So there is to be battle again at Helm's Deep," he surmised afterwards, giving the Brown Wizard a grave look. "What can we do to help? We have no wings to aid you, yet I might offer archers to shoot the Enemy from the sky, if you are willing."

"As generous as your offer is, I think we'll have to forgo the archers in case they accidentally strike the wrong birds," said Dumbledore, speaking up for the first time since they sat down. "Due to the magical nature of the battle, there will be very little that you_ can_ do, otherwise. We felt that it was important, and only polite, to make you aware of the danger ahead, given that your fortress lies directly beneath the probable field of conflict."

Though what danger they might face was anyone's guess, given that the confrontation would take place several hundred feet above them, a thought that also occurred to their host.

"A battle in the skies!" he marvelled, looking strangely electrified. "Yet what harm can there be to us if we merely observe?"

"Well there is the danger of bird poo falling into gaping mouths," speculated Fred, eliciting a rumble of laughter from Erkenbrand.

"If that is all we have to fear then we shall keep our mouths shut!" he chortled.

Dumbledore cleared his throat. "I think waste products might be the least of our problems," he remarked dryly. "Firstly, we'll need to convince the crows who already inhabit the mountain to evacuate it. As the master of birds, Radagast has agreed to meet with them to convince them of this necessity."

For the next five minutes, he outlined the rest of their plan to the Lord of the Westfold, who was completely absorbed by the theory behind the aerial battle, and very impressed by the moniker of Radagast's Army.

"Our feathered friends must be in place by tomorrow evening at the latest," Dumbledore informed him. "Most of them are already on their way, and their final count will be important; the crebain number two hundred, but though we hope to amass a larger army, I have it on good authority that Saruman's spies can be vicious when provoked. Couple that with the fact that they'll be determined to complete their mission, and there's no knowing what they might stoop to in their desperation to elude us. But it is imperative that not even a single bird escapes with its cargo of Longbottom's Bane or the consequences may be devastating."

There was no need for Dumbledore to elaborate; everyone realised what would happen if Sauron inadvertently got his hands on the Light of Varda.

If Sauron even had any hands ...

"Have you any idea when these crebain might arrive?" enquired the Lord of the Westfold.

It was Radagast who replied, after swallowing his ale. "Within the next two days. Until then, with your permission, we shall busy ourselves with preparations. My Thrihyrne friends must be evacuated forthwith, their roosts enchanted, and my new Istari colleagues situated so that they might observe without being seen."

Erkenbrand's blessing was postponed for a few minutes while sustenance arrived. Having had little but elven waybread to sustain him over the past few days, Fred attacked his stew with relish. Dumbledore and Radagast waited until their Rohirrim host gave his official seal of approval, though it was fairly obvious from their first meeting that he had every intention of doing so.

"I thank you for the courtesy you have shown in informing us of the impending confrontation. You did not have to do this, given that it is a battle of beast and magic beyond our reach or understanding, and not strictly speaking upon our soil. Yet you have taken the time to inform us nonetheless. Now we know to prepare ourselves for what might otherwise have seemed an evil omen. On behalf of Théoden King, I bid you have at it, noble lords. May the second Battle of Helm's Deep be as victorious as the first!" he stated emphatically, adding, "Know also that you have only to ask for any resources we might provide that will aid you. At the very least I beg that you would accept our hospitality whilst here, and have already ordered rooms to be made ready for you, should you desire rest."

Pleased with his gracious support, the visiting Istari joined their host in supping.

And thereafter the preparations began.

**XXX**

After they had supped, Fred laid out their bedrolls, and Dumbledore set about teaching him how to treat his own with flying charms, breaking charms, and all other manner of safety enchantments so that the pair would be able to fly up to the Thrihyrne and begin the process of enchanting the crows' nesting places. It was to be long, laborious work that would easily consume their entire evening and night, for there were thousands of crows living in hundreds of crags, nooks and crannies all over the triple peaks. Radagast (in his eagle form) had already left to commune with their leaders and beg both their indulgence and patience for the task. He was gone for so long, that Dumbledore began to worry that he and Fred might not have enough time to complete their task before the crebain arrived. At last, just before ten o' clock, the Brown Wizard reappeared in the Great Hall of the Hornburg, where his companions were entertaining the Rohirrim by testing out the newly enchanted bedrolls.

"It is done," he announced triumphantly as they descended from the rafters. "Many of our crow friends have agreed to fly further south for three days, but no longer than that. Some, however, are unwilling to evacuate their nests, leaving us with but half those we require to conceal our own soldiers. If the majority of the crebain inadvertently rest in nests occupied by those crows who refuse to leave, then we may have a problem, for their hosts will not attack them unprovoked, and I will not risk collateral damage to innocent ones if their homes are assailed by troops willing to do the deed they shall not."

Dumbledore and Fred shared a look of chagrin.

"On a more positive note," continued Radagast, waggling a gnarled finger in the air, "we have already some of our army in place - goshawks and kites - whom I have bidden to commence their concealment behind the southern cliffs. Gwildor has arrived also, bringing with him some owls and snipe, among others. More are to follow. All have been armed with a querindae berry, which they have promised to keep safe until needed – or at least promised not to consume until digestion delivers the seedlings when they are needed. We await now only the other half of our army, including the smaller eagles, to perch in the vacant nests."

That, at least, was good news. Of course, they had already heard some of the new arrivals, who had swooped lazily over Helm's Deep, greeting the astonished Rohirrim with a chorus of owlish hooting, gull-like calls from goshawks, and mass thrumming of snipes' tails, before soaring to the cliffs above. Dumbledore and Fred had not seen it personally, but had been reliably informed (by a very impressed Erkenbrand) that it was spectacular to behold.

"Excellent news!" said Dumbledore. He had been hoping to begin treating the crows' nests that evening, but it was now so late, and the darkness in the valley so complete, that it would be a pointless task, even with a Lumos Maxima. Instead, the three determined to take what rest they could, and would rise instead at first light to commence the daunting task. Erkenbrand had them escorted to chambers in the tower, and soon Fred and Dumbledore were enjoying their first ever night's sleep in their new world.

They would certainly need it …

**XXX**

After a quick breakfast the next morning, Radagast, in his bird form, led Dumbledore and Fred, on their flying bedrolls, up into the heady heights of the triple-peaked Thrihyrne, stopping all along the cliffs' edges to mark the vacant nests. At first, the sight caused quite a commotion as those crows remaining took flight in fright; but after a few screeches from Radagast, they were reassured enough to land and settle once more. Nonetheless, the feeling of hundreds of pairs of beady brown eyes observing every flick and flourish of the floating wizards was unnerving for Fred.

"Wouldn't mind so much if I was on a broom; I could dodge them easier," he griped, unimpressed by the comparably limited manoeuvrability of his alternate transport when it fell victim to a rain of bird poo from jutting crags above. A wave of his wand removed bird muck from his red hair, and he scowled at the towering cliffs. "Wonder how they'd like it if I flew overhead and relieved myself all over them."

The image this conjured had Dumbledore shaking with suppressed laughter as he flew onto the next series of nests, a collection of large constructions made of twigs lined with hair and bark. It was laborious work, even for him; but a mass enchantment was out of the question when so many crows insisted on remaining in their homes. Fortunately, the formerly deceased headmaster had learned the art of patience, and amused himself by humming merrily while he worked.

Well into late morning they laboured, only pausing for lunch in the Hornburg with Erkenbrand and several of his lieutenants, where they were given a detailed, and very exciting, account of the first Battle of Helm's Deep.

"Brick walls appearing from thin air to thwart our foes!" stated one lieutenant, relating Neville's attempt to stop the enemy from advancing up the causeway (not realising it was an effort on the teenager's part to save his own skin until someone – anyone – opened the ruddy gateway long enough for him to reach the relative safety of the other side).

"Ladders bewitched to throw climbing foes from them, before hurling themselves on the field of battle below! Exploding plants! Strangling plants! Foe-sucking plants! 'Twas wondrous to behold!" stated another.

"Let us not forget the mighty Lady Molly!"

A chorus of oohs and aahs and hearty thumps did the rounds of the table as beefy blonds everywhere reminisced.

"She flew like a bird across the battlefield on little more than a broom!"

"Wonder if that's my old Cleansweep? Hope I can talk her out of it when I see her."

"She shot flame from her staff!"

"Same spell she uses to light the kitchen fire," said Fred knowledgeably.

"Made grown orcs weep in terror simply by shouting at them!"

"The trick is not to let her build up a head of steam first, otherwise there's no stopping her," sympathised her son.

"Used shattered wood from the ladders to strike one enemy after another!"

"I'm acquainted with that one, too. Only once, mind you, when George and I were eight; and it was a wooden spoon on our backsides, not a ladder. Thank Merlin. Wouldn't have been able to sit down for the rest of my life otherwise. And, in our defence, we had no way of knowing Ginny wouldn't appreciate such a drastic hairstyle - she was always moaning about not being treated like 'one of the boys'."

"So you cut her hair short," surmised Dumbledore between bites of his sandwich.

"'Short' might be too generous a word," grinned Fred, waggling his eyebrows. "We shaved it off completely using one of Dad's Muggle razors. I think it's safe to say that Mum was not thrilled. Neither were we by the time she was finished 'disciplining' us."

"To have the honour of calling such a one 'mother'!" exclaimed a strapping captain, called Deobold, admiringly. "Come, Fred, son of Molly; allow me to show you Helm's Deep in all its glory, that you may see what your kin so valiantly defended!"

At first, Fred was inclined to politely refuse, for they had still roosts to enchant, and feathered allies to direct to those already finished. But Dumbledore encouraged him to accept the offer, pleased to see his former student making new friends. As it was, there was not enough work left for them both anyway when the rest of the army had yet to arrive, and so he guessed he would be finished within the hour. If they appeared at any point during that time, Fred could easily be sent for.

But after the allotted hour, when all the remaining nests were bespelled and temporary residents installed within them, only a few more owls had arrived, and Dumbledore was growing concerned. True, the crebain were not due to arrive until the next day, and Radagast had despatched some of the snipe to scout ahead and warn them when they flew within a league of the mountain, but still. Perhaps it was the fact of not being able to communicate with an army he was relying on to aid them that made him feel powerless, or perhaps it was the fact he was about to participate in a battle like none other, and the stakes were higher than they had ever been. It was not simply a country, or even a way of life they were attempting to save now; it was an entire world.

"Do not fear, Purple Wizard," said Radagast half an hour later, as both wizards perched atop one of the craggy peaks, looking north. "They have to fly from farther away than those who have already arrived. But they shall be here by this evening, and all settled for the morrow."

Unfortunately for them, they didn't have nearly as long as they imagined.

**XXX**

Less than forty minutes later, in the middle of the afternoon, and with no warning whatsoever from Radagast's scouts, the crebain arrived in a great, dark, croaking cloud.

The only piece of good fortune, if it could be called that, was that Radagast was already in his falcon form. As the skies in the north slowly darkened with the wave of jet-coloured spies of Isengard, he quickly flew into the Hornburg where Dumbledore and Fred were holding intense discussions with the Rohirrim, transformed into his human form and cried,"They are come! They are here!"

Startled, everyone shot out of their seats.

"But they're early!" exclaimed Fred, wishing more than ever that he had a broom handy. He grabbed his bedroll, but Dumbledore stopped him mounting it.

"No! We won't be able to use them without alarming our allies into the bargain. We'll have to make do with observing from the mountain. Have the rest of our army arrived?" he demanded of Radagast.

"Not yet. We must do what we can. Hurry! There is no time to waste!"

With that, the Brown Wizard transformed once again and took flight out the narrow window, leaving Dumbledore and Fred to Disapparate in his wake, and Rohirrim to scramble for the ramparts of Helms Deep to get what view they could.

The two wizards Apparated onto the same craggy peak which Dumbledore and Radagast had used earlier that afternoon, concealed from view behind an outcrop of rock. Angling their bodies just so, this new elevation gave them a spectacular view of the battle already under way, filling their ears with the incredible sound of hundreds of birds in deadly confrontation with each other.

"Whatever happens, do not interfere," ordered Dumbledore as their gazes were drawn to the sights ahead.

"But ..."

Bright blue eyes pinned the redhead fast. "I am quite serious, Fred. This is Radagast's fight for the moment. We may watch, but no more than that. Don't forget what the crebain carry, and the effect it had on you back in Orthanc."

"Albus, they were already flowering plants."

"And the seeds which the crebain now carry have evolved over several generations since, which means they may be more powerful. Don't argue, Fred. The last thing we need is for the crebain to spot us."

Warning duly given and understood, they returned their attention to the scene ahead. Though it was instantly clear that some of the crebain had fallen for their well-planned ruse and entered a few of the bewitched nests, many had not. As the two wizards watched anxiously, they saw dozens of crebain fly towards the Thrihyrne and promptly turn away.

"I don't understand," said Fred, having to shout to be heard above the noise. "Why isn't it working?"

Dumbledore had no idea. None of Saruman's birds should have been able to spot their spells for the traps they were; every last one of them should have landed without a care in the world.

But they had not.

A piercing chorus of croaking and squawking echoed down the valley as those crebain who had settled comfortably amidst what they thought were brethren began to come under attack. Many were taken by surprise and killed outright, their death cries rattling down the valley. Many others attempted to flee and met with some success, joining the growing cloud of crebain who were now desperately angling away from the cliffs to head south. Just then, a screech rang out from the cliff face, drawing Dumbledore and Fred's gazes directly overhead, and out soared the unmistakable Peregrine form of Radagast, who rose with a contingent of kestrels and Red kites to head straight for the crebain. As one their quarry angled north, only to be cut off by a contingent of snipe, whose sharp calls of _scape-scape_ preceded an astonishing zig-zagging aerial display that threw their enemies into confusion and successfully blocked their escape route.

Radagast was a blur of motion as he dove across the skies, using a series of short, sharp screeches to direct the battle. On several occasions he could just be spotted snatching an unlucky craban from the sky by his talons before delivering the killing stroke with his beak. Corpses began to plummet to the ground far below as his army harried the stunned crebain time and again. But the crebain had been nurtured by their evil master for far too long to have escaped his dark influence; larger, more intelligent, more vicious than any crow alive, and absolutely determined to fulfil their mission, they pecked and clawed and ripped and slashed at anyone and anything that dared approach.

As the battle escalated, there followed the most terrific noise either wizard had heard since they arrived: frightened caws from the Thrihyrne crows who had refused to abandon their nests; furious croaks of betrayal from the crebain who survived the initial attacks only to be thwarted by the sneaky, swift snipe; plaintive, wailing _whee-oo, whee-oo_ of kites who broadened their forked tails for greater agility, stretched out yellow legs and bared their talons threateningly as they hurtled towards the protesting intruders; the high-pitched _kii-kii-kiikii _of long-tailed kestrels, who were little more than brown-black blurs as they dove onto their prey from above, scattering the enraged crebain so that they were unable to reform and take flight as a cohesive unit.

At least not as a single cohesive unit ...

It seemed that, despite their limited numbers, the battle was going well for Radagast's Army. With the crebain scattered and in disarray, the Enemy was finding it difficult to mount an adequate defence. Until, that is, the spies of Isengard began to form smaller units instead, attacking the aggressors in groups of threes, fours, sixes, and so on. It was quickly proving successful; three goshawks were set upon and ripped to pieces in mid-air. Catching on to the tactic, more and more crebain followed suit, and soon the greater army organised their defence.

With a single craban challenging a greater foe in what appeared to be an unstoppable collision, it would bank left or right at the last minute, repeating the act, drawing its enemy farther from the main fight as it relentlessly pursued. But then, with no allies nearby, the remaining group of crebain would attack from above; four or five of Saruman's birds descending en masse onto the kestrel, goshawk or owl to tear it apart.

The battle went ill for the RA thereafter as, one after another, the Avian Army of the West fell victim to this foul tactic. However it was when the crebain targeted Radagast himself that things spiralled out of control.

Having identified him as the leader, several groups of crebain were actively trying to corner him, and even though many of the wizard's feathered friends engaged the attackers, there were simply too many to deal with.

"We have to do something," shouted Fred over the sound of screeching, cawing and shrill, squawking death cries, having caught sight of several groups of crebain spreading across the valley, closing in on their Maia colleague.

Dumbledore was equally frustrated, but what could they do without harming their allies? Radagast was fast – very fast – and had managed to elude the crebain so far, though it was at the expense of directing his troops, who had their wings full trying to contend with the remaining crebain. If only he could talk to birds the way the Brown Wizard could!

Making an executive decision (and ignoring Fred's outraged glare), he fired a Patronus at Radagast's attackers. Both wizards watched apprehensively as the silvery Phoenix sailed into the crebain's midst, confusing and scattering them; but the crafty birds soon regrouped and cornered the Peregrine against the northern cliff face. With the majority of the RA struggling against a squadron of spies determined to keep them from the main attack, and Radagast's routes of escape being cut off one after another, Fred took matters into his own hands.

Before Dumbledore could stop him, he unrolled his enchanted bedroll and was soon lost amidst the thick of soaring, diving, swooping birds. Vexed, the furious headmaster could only watch as a red kite locked a craban in its claws and the pair went spiralling downwards, missing Fred's bedroll by inches.

"Get back here this instant!" boomed the angry headmaster, feeling very much like Molly Weasley. His cry drew the attention of an enemy agent, which began croaking urgently at its otherwise occupied colleagues.

Fred, having barely avoided suffering a bird-sized hole in his bedroll, wobbled on it badly, and was struggling to manoeuvre as he ducked and dodged to avoid speeding, striking birds. Not for the first time he wished for the aerodynamic superiority of even a ruddy Comet.

Meanwhile, Dumbledore was left with no choice but to silence the croaking craban before it alerted its friends to his presence. Fred, in his worry over Radagast, was obviously ignoring Dumbledore's calls, and his former headmaster was working up a fine head of steam. Why in the world had he not insisted Fred leave the bedroll in the Great Hall? He might have known the impetuous youth would do something reckless!

Something strange began to happen then. It seemed the Purple Wizard hadn't silenced his pesky craban quickly enough after all; for even as Fred lifted his wand to fire into the crowd of crebain heading for the ravine, where the Brown Wizard was quickly becoming boxed in, out of nowhere, the enemy force split into three sections: one group continued down the ravine towards Radagast, the other two circled left and right past the north and south cliff faces, with one group heading for Fred's modified flying bedroll, and the other directly for Dumbledore's hiding place.

They reached Fred first.

"Uh, oh," gulped the redhead, firing wildly as he tried to dodge them. For every craban he hit, another took its place, and they were faster than his bedroll. But they did not attack him. Instead they circled him menacingly, croaking and rasping, dropping something at him – many somethings, actually. And all so minute in size that there was only one thing they could possibly be ...

Seedlings settled on his hair, slipped down the collar of his jacket, landed on his bedroll ...

Dumbledore clambered over the rocks in horror, gazing down as the drama unfolded, and making himself an even easier target for the crebain racing his way as, elsewhere (and for the first time in his life) Fred probably wished he'd just been pooed on.

_Croak, croak, croak!_

Fred's fate was temporarily driven from his mind as Dumbledore's own drew within several yards of his position. But he didn't give them a chance to get any closer. With one swift stroke of the Elder Wand, they were caught up in a sudden, violent whirlwind that sent them into a furious spin, and then dashed against the rocky cliffs with such force that their necks were snapped, and they fell lifelessly to the ground many hundreds of feet below.

But while he was distracted Fred was in real trouble. He had known what had fallen, had known it was too late, but the action was reflexive, instinctive, and he fired a spell at the attacking crebain.

Nothing happened.

He fired again, with the same result, then thumped his wand on his thigh. "Work, for crying out loud. Work!" he yelled at the poor, defenceless wand in frustration. Just then the bedroll beneath him lurched and went limp. In that one, dreadful moment, Fred managed a final look at Dumbledore (who was, apparently, busy creating a new weather front in the valley) before plummeting from the defunct magical transport, arms flailing wildly in the air.

Fred had already fallen very far indeed by the time Dumbledore had dealt with his own attackers. In those precious few seconds, he was so far out of sight that the headmaster couldn't even locate him to stop his fall.

Not from this angle anyway.

With a growing sense of urgency, he twisted on the spot, successfully shocking the wits out of Deobold and Gamling as he appeared between them on the battlements below.

"Everybody move!" he roared, and Rohirrim dived out of his way as he raced down the battlements, keeping an eye on the sky above for falling redheads. Finally …

"There!" cried a familiar voice – Erkenbrand, as it happened. The Lord of the Westfold pointed east of the ravine and Dumbledore almost sagged in relief.

Having no idea that his life was about to be saved, Fred hurtled down, down, down into the valley, the wind tugging wildly at his dragon-hide jacket (but not wildly enough to keep him buoyant, damn it!), and soon the ramparts of Helm's Deep came speeding into view. Every wave of his wand produced absolutely no response and he knew he was going to die. Not that death bothered him so much any more (although to be killed by rocks yet again was really annoying); it was just embarrassing to know that the greatest impression he was about to leave on his new Rohirric friends was a giant Weasleyberry jam stain on the Deeping-wall.

Annoyed beyond belief, he closed his eyes metres before the final strike, trying not to listen to the terrified shouts from below, hoping they had the sense to move out of the way before he flattened someone else into the bargain, and feeling very thankful he hadn't yet been reunited with his mother, who would definitely have been inconsolable to have lost him a second time.

A piercing screech above him alerted him to the possibility of Radagast trying vainly to save him, but it would be no use. His Peregrine form simply wasn't big enough.

And then, seconds from disaster, he halted in mid-air, then was lowered gently onto the battlements.

Cheers deafened him as he was set effortlessly upon the wall he so very nearly redecorated a not-so-fetching Weasley red.

"Strip!" ordered Dumbledore tersely, taking the shaken youth completely by surprise.

"What? No flowers? No chocolates? No romantic stroll under the moonlight? Just 'strip'?"

It was the shock talking, he knew, but Dumbledore was too worried to be amused. With a flick of his wand, Fred clothes fell away, leaving him standing in his smalls.

"Bend over!"

"Hold on to your hippogriffs, Albus. Firstly, we have an audience, and secondly, you are definitely not my type."

Dumbledore's reply was more of a low growl. "If you do not bend over and shake those seeds out of your hair _this very instant_, you will soon be the baldest twenty-year-old in Middle-earth."

The penny finally dropped; Fred doubled over, plunged his hands into his hair, and shook ferociously. Dumbledore had already enchanted his clothes to shake themselves free of seedlings, and soon there was a tiny pile of Longbottom's Bane gathered on the Deeping-wall. Backing away as if he'd been scalded, Fred grabbed his seed-free clothes and donned them while Dumbledore incinerated the scourge of Saruman.

"Precisely which part of 'Do not interfere' did you fail to understand, Mr Weasley?" he demanded upon finishing, feeling angrier than he had in a long time.

Fred gaped at him blankly. "How come your magic wasn't affected?" he spluttered, staring first at the noxious smoke curling from the seedlings' remains, then his former headmaster.

"That is not important right now! I asked you a question. You know the danger Longbottom's Bane poses to you! Yet still you flew off like a reckless idiot! That is the kind of foolish behaviour I would have expected from you five years ago, not now!"

"I was only trying to help Radagast," stated Fred, colouring almost as red as his hair.

"Trying to …" Dumbledore shook his head in vexation. "Radagast is more than capable of taking care of himself. Radagast has nothing to fear from those."

He jerked his wand in the direction of the smouldering ruins at their feet.

"You, on the other hand, do. What if I hadn't been able to help you, Fred? What if I had been just as susceptible to their dark magic as you? You would be dead. A whole world gone as if it had never existed!"

He broke off to glower at Fred accusingly. The younger man was once again dressed in his familiar green coat, and the look on his face had turned from mortified to sceptical.

"Don't you think you're laying it on just a bit _too_ thick," ventured Fred cautiously.

Mighty Rohirrim warriors (who had been not-so-subtly edging away from the angry wizard when he forcibly divested Fred of his clothes) paused to stare at Dumbledore in confusion. Catching their expressions, the Purple Wizard decided this was not the best time to reveal all he suspected. That would have to wait until later. Instead, he took a measured breath and sighed deeply.

"Perhaps you're right. I can only assume it's the natives' love of drama rubbing off on me. Nevertheless, Fred, you must promise me that you won't do something so completely foolish again."

Looking genuinely abashed by his companion's obvious worry, Fred nodded.

"You're right," he agreed, flushing. "Of course you are. It won't happen again, I promise. It was stupid, and I knew it even before I flew off. But we're getting thumped up there, Albus! The crebain outnumber us two to one, and Radagast … well, I just don't like to see someone being bullied. It's unfair, you know?"

The response was enough to elicit a chuckle from the older wizard.

"A Gryffindor to the bone," he managed with a wry smile, and pleased that they had reconciled, Fred returned the grin.

"So, what are we going to do now? Because I don't fancy standing here and watching while those daft birds beat the RA senseless."

It was as if Fred's words were a battle cry. No sooner had he uttered them when several piercingly loud screeches echoed down the valley. Hands clapped over ears everywhere as they all looked up to see the very welcome sight that was the second wave of Radagast's Army.

And they were being led by a contingent of Great Eagles.

The battle above turned into a slaughter as the reinforced RA soared, swooped, chased and tore at the now scattering crebain.

_"Yes!"_ shouted Fred, punching the air in victory.

"Erkenbrand," said Dumbledore to their host, "you and your men can watch the rest in complete safety, I assure you. However, you won't object, I'm sure, if Fred and I remove ourselves from the crebain's trajectory, and perhaps help ourselves to a glass of your finest instead?"

Without waiting for a reply, he grabbed Fred by the arm and Disapparated them both into the Hornburg, leaving the speechless Rohirrim staring at the spot they had just vacated.

"What did you do that for?" asked Fred when they Apparated into Erkenbrand's huge study.

"Because," sighed the headmaster in relief, "it appears we might very well now win this battle. That means falling crebain. And _that_ means ..."

"... a shower of Longbottom's Bane. Point taken."

And so they waited impatiently, alternately sipping on goblets of wine and staring out the narrow slit in the stone that passed as a window. The noise from outside was incredible, and several flashes of bright light attested to the fact that Radagst had resumed his human form at some point. Finally, after less than an hour, Erkenbrand returned with the Brown Wizard in tow, one looking deeply impressed, the other deeply tired.

"It is done, for the moment," announced Radagast, accepting a glass of wine from his host before sinking into a chair.

"'Twas the most extraordinary thing I have ever seen, this battle in the skies," stated Erkenbrand, clapping Radagast firmly on the back. It was a testament to how fatigued the grumpy wizard was when he didn't object.

"But we won, right?" asked Fred expectantly.

Radagast looked up. "You," he said between sips, "should not have risked your young neck trying to save me. Foolish boy! I am the Brown Wizard; if I cannot escape a mere dozen crebain, then what good am I?"

"I've already had this lecture, thanks very much. And for your information, the crebain had you pinned into the ravine; birds above you, birds below, more coming straight at you. Unless you've learned to Disapparate in the last twenty-four hours, how did you plan to get out of that?"

"I was luring them into a cave, boy, where I could transform back into my natural form and disable them with my staff! A ruse that proved successful, I might add." He glowered at Fred for a moment, and then his gaze softened notably. "Nonetheless, I am … grateful for your concern on my behalf. It has been many a year since someone showed such concern for my good health. I … thank you. But you might have been killed! If you ever do that again I shall … I shall ..."

"Stutter at me?" asked Fred slyly.

"I shall think of some dreadful punishment for you, mark my words!"

But the bite was taken from Radagast's declaration by the sudden twinkle in his brown eyes.

"Well, as long as you don't expect me to strip and bend over without any explanation whatsoever, that'll be fine," said Fred, innocently. Dumbledore and Erkenbrand laughed.

The joke was lost on Radagast. Huffing in his usual pleasant manner, he launched into an explanation of events since they left the battle so dramatically. Not moments after his fellow Istari had disappeard, Gwaihir the Windlord arrived with a contingent of Great Eagles.

"It appears Gwaihir learned of the impending battle from the falcons nesting in northern Lothlórien ere he could make headway to his eyrie. Already some of his kin were flying to meet him, to warn of attacks upon Imladris – do not fear. The Lord Elrond has his own arts to dispel any such threats, and the orcs were soon surrounded and slain, for the most part. Those who survived fled into the Misty Mountains, where the Eagles silenced them forever. Once Gwaihir learned of the surge in Enemy assaults, he commanded his flock to journey with him to the Thrihyrne, and so the second wave of Radagast's Army finally quashed the threat of the crebain. For the most part."

"For the most part?" echoed Dumbledore, alert in his seat once more.

A sigh, though more of vexation than fatigue. "At battle's end we gathered all the fallen. Twelve goshawks, twenty owls, eighteen snipe, several kites. The crebain corpses, too, we gathered - and counted ere burning. Alas, my friends, though we slew most, there are at least seventeen unaccounted for."

It was not good news. Certainly seventeen was better than two hundred, but it was still seventeen too many.

"I fear they fled as soon as reinforcements arrived. Scattered beyond our reach. At present. Battle has worn more than just I, and the loss of our scouts is another cruel blow which saps at my strength."

"Do you have any idea what happened to them?" asked Dumbledore.

"I can but assume they fell victim to the crebain's appetites. Snipe are more suited to marshlands than mountains; perhaps the terrain confused them enough that it afforded their hunters the edge. As for our other feathered friends, those who remain feed on their dead, and then they shall rest. I cannot ask them to give further chase today, for it would be expecting too much after all their exertions."

"They're eating their dead?" asked Fred, trying not to show his disgust.

"Those who fought today on our behalf are carnivores, young Fred. They do not bury their dead, as Men do. Nay, 'tis much more sensible for them to take what strength their fallen comrades offer, for the dead cannot be offended by it now."

"I'd just like to point out that if I pop my clogs at any point, please, in the name of Merlin, bury me. Preferably somewhere deep where hungry beaks can't find me."

Rolling his eyes in fond exasperation, Dumbledore offered his condolences to Radagast for the loss of his friends, and asked him to pass on on their gratitude to the survivors, a sentiment which deeply affected the Brown Wizard.

"You are most gracious, Dumbledore the Deep Purple. Not many would have been considerate enough to vocalise such sentiments."

"Then allow me to add a tribute of my own," Erkenbrand said. "A mightier clash in the skies we have never seen. Truly one of the bravest and most daring feats of the war so far. Rohan shall sing of the valour shown here today for many generations to come."

"Rohan is ever gracious to my friends, now feathered as well as four-legged. You have my gratitude, and theirs."

For a few moments, silence reigned as the company reflected over the day's events, and conversation arose anew over the aftermath. Destroying the fallen Longbottom's Bane was a priority, and as Dumbledore seemed to be - for the most part - unaffected by their magic, he determined to leave within the hour to gather them by magic and deposit them in the still-ravaged fields outside Helm's Deep.

"You will require a prominent area in which to sow them, so that this ... querindae ... plant may target them with ease." Erkenbrand thought for a moment. "If you scatter them upon the twin mounds of our buried brethren, Radagast's plant may dispose of them there. Thereafter the querindae may remain and bloom, a pretty blanket to keep our honoured dead warm."

This idea was welcomed by all.

"Which brings us back to those seedlings which have managed to elude our grasp," said Dumbledore. "I think we all know where the crebain are headed now, and that they'll do so with more urgency than ever before, now they know we're after them. Which, I think, leaves us only one option."

"We need to find them before they find Neville," finished Fred uncharacteristically gravely. "I was lucky you were here to realise what was happening when those seeds fell on me. Neville won't be. Neither he nor Mum will have a clue what's going on. We have to stop them, Albus. And quickly."

It went without saying, of course. But how to get to Minas Tirith? They couldn't possibly impose on Radagast any more – he belonged in Rhosgobel with his birds, beasts and plants. Neither could they borrow horses from the Rohirrim, not when neither of them could ride to save their lives. Besides, there just wasn't the time to learn, not this far into their quest.

With a frown on his wizened face,Dumbledore paced Erkenbrand's study, deep in thought. What a pity the time-turner had been broken! Then again, perhaps it was a good thing after all. One should never become reliant on such deep magic to solve all of one's problems; it could only ever result in disaster.

Feeling eyes upon his back, he turned to find the Brown Wizard shaking his head at him in what could only be described at irritation.

"Dumbledore the Dense, I name you!"

"Is that so?" he asked in some amusement. "Personally, I always fancied that I was rather intelligent, even if I do say so myself?"

Radagast huffed. "Not intelligent enough to realise that you do not have to ask for my aid. If even one craban escapes, then the threat to those I hold dear is still as great as the threat to those you hold dear. I am now, as I ever was, at your service, foolish Istar. You and Fred the Red also. Besides, you are yet in need of adequate transport to Gondor's beleaguered capital and I refuse to Disapparate ever again – 'tis more unnatural than a mirthful Dark Lord."

Relieved and intrigued, Dumbledore retook his seat and poured another wine. "What method of transport might you be referring to?" he asked, eyes twinkling once more over his half moon spectacles.

Radagast gave one of his rare grins. "I shall fly in my falcon form. You -" he pointed first at the headmaster, then his former pupil "- shall fly on the backs of the Great Eagles! They have already consented, and willingly."

Fred looked relieved. "Thank Merlin. Anything's better than a bedroll. No offence, Albus."

"None taken. But, Radagast, are you and your friends prepared for the danger we'll be heading into? The battle of Minas Tirith will be on a much larger scale than the one you've just fought. You may be killed. The Eagles, too. I would hate to be responsible for that."

"Allow us to know our own minds better than you. Certainly well enough to be able to make our own choices," grumbled the Brown Wizard. He gave another frightening grin. "Besides, I have not had such fine sport in many a year! And if there be fell beasts to hunt, Gwaihir and his company will surely be indebted to you!"

And so their course was decided.

To follow the crebain to Gondor ...

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Author's Note_: Seriously, you cannot begin to imagine how difficult planning an aerial attack was – an aerial attack using only birds. It sucked the humour right out of me (which explains why there's so little of it to be found in this chapter, sorry folks). I had to research each type of bird, their appearance, diet, fight patterns, vocalisations, then plan some kind of battle using these elements.

*wry chuckles*

Naturally, I couldn't use every detail I researched – in fact, most of them fell by the wayside, being unnecessary after all (which annoyed me even more). And after all that blooming effort, I'm not even sure it turned out convincingly. But I've been working on it for ages, and it's caught the general gist of events, so it's going to have to do because I just can't look at this chapter any more. I have to get it posted in order to move on to the next. So I can only apologise profusely if it is not up to the quality of previous chapters, and beg of you to stretch your imagination a little when reading it, so that it's easier to swallow. I will make sure that any chapters which follow are back on track.

Thanks for your patience, folks.

Kara's Aunty ;)


	50. Fight and Flight

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. and Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

**Credit: **thainsbook dot net, harrypotterwikia dot com.

*****Please R & R. It really _is_ my only reward*****

**Chapter 50**

* * *

_The Plains of South Gondor_

_Third Age, 13__th__-15__th __March 3019_

Neville had never, ever, _ever_ felt so terrible in all his life.

Seriously.

"Young Wizard," said a man's baritone.

No response.

"Son of Longbottom, you have slept well into the afternoon. 'Tis time to bid fair dreams farewell and rise, for we have much to do."

Groaning, Neville turned on his other side and pulled his bedroll all the way over his head.

Vaguely he registered a sigh, then felt breath on his ear as someone leaned over his cot, pulled his covering back, and whispered that deadliest of threats: "Do not force me to hail your Guardian."

That close to his ear, and in such a delicate condition, it was as if someone had locked him in a room with a Banshee; the noise was incredible.

"Aaargh!" he cried, shooting up and shoving whoever it was away from him. The sudden motion made him feel sick, and it was all Neville could do not to vomit. Gingerly, he dropped his throbbing head into his hands and groaned the groan of a man who hates life.

"I hate life," he confirmed aloud through a mouth as arid as any desert.

"You will like it better once you have partaken of a pitcher or ten of water," said the voice, which he now recognised as Aglador's. The captain thrust a tankard of cold liquid his way. "Here. This will help to chase away your winely woes."

"No it won't," groaned the teenager, forced to accept the hefty receptacle. "Just let me die."

Aglador laughed (damn him), and the vibrations rattled Neville's nerves. And his head. And his stomach …

Aglador promptly stopped laughing when Neville scrabbled wildly for the edge of his cot, dropping the tankard in his haste, and vomited all over the captain's shiny boots.

"Uauauaugh," moaned the teenager two minutes later, spitting foulness from his mouth onto the grassy carpet below (Aglador having run from the tent in disgust). Not even bothering to haul himself back onto his cot properly, he closed his eyes and fell into a laboured sleep.

A further ten minutes later, someone grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, dragged him to a pail of water, and plunged his head into its icy depths.

"Aaaargh! Geroff! Geroff me!" spluttered Neville, choking, gasping, and fully, horribly alert when he resurfaced. He swung around, droplets of water flying everywhere, to face his attacker. It was Halbarad.

"So, you have joined the land of the living once more," grinned the ranger, looking annoyingly smug (and sober. Damn him too).

"Living? No. Existing? Barely," growled Neville, glaring at him in affront. "Why did you have to be so rough anyway? You might have just prodded me or something. I would've got up."

Eventually.

Halbarad cocked a dark eyebrow. "So thought Aglador, until you emptied your stomach all over his boots. His best boots, I might add. He is less than amused."

Served him right for bringing his best boots into battle then, in Neville's uncharitable opinion. And for shouting in his ear.

"Whaddaya want anyway?" he slurred as he reached out to catch the towel Halbarad threw his way. He missed it by millimetres, bent down to grab it off the grass, and swayed dizzily when he straightened.

"Easy there, young one!" laughed Halbarad, guiding him away from his (stinking) cot and settling him into a chair instead. Marching out of the tent, he returned ten minutes later with a bucket of earth, which he promptly dumped over the grass containing the former contents of Neville's stomach. "That will have to do until you are well enough to either bury it, or magic it away."

Neville paid no attention. He had just downed the entire contents of a pitcher of water, placed by some thoughtful person on the crate next to him that served as a table, and still he felt terrible. His entire body _thrummed_ for lack of a better word, as if every fibre of it vibrated unpleasantly, waiting for something to happen.

And something did happen, because he promptly emptied his stomach again. Halbarad plucked the empty pitcher from the table, looked from it to the heaving wizard's back, and sighed heavily.

"Too much, too soon," was his official assessment. He filled the pitcher with icy water from the barrel, soaked a torn rag into it, and placed it over Neville's neck.

"This will help to ease your stomach. 'Tis also quite handy in the event of nosebleeds, though I know not the reason why," offered the ranger conversationally. "Know you that, when I was your age, and learning the arts of the warrior in Imladris – as must all Dúnedain in their youth – I spent several months under Elrond's personal tutelage. Alas, but though necessary, the healing arts were never my speciality, much to his dismay. I once mistakenly diagnosed a lady with a severe stoppage of the bowel and suggested cedar oil as a remedy. Three hours later she gave birth to twins. Elrond has never let me forget it."

Neville was fairly certain he was in no imminent danger of giving birth and fervently wished Halbarad would stop prattling on and just leave him to curl back up in his sodden bed. But it was not to be. The well-meaning ranger hauled him up, stripped him to his smalls, and prescribed a cold wash down by the basin to wake the boy up. Forced to comply (Halbarad refused to leave until he had 'washed the stench of wine and vomit from his rancid body'), he shrieked in protest as the icy water did its job, and fifteen minutes later he was clad in jeans and a themed t-shirt, and being frog-marched to Elphir's tent.

"A hearty breakfast will do you much good!" promised the ranger, still grinning (which was beyond annoying). "Molly has already the makings of what she calls a 'fry-up', and assures us that it is the best cure for your current condition.

The news dismayed Neville, who could barely see where he was going, and had to squint in the bright afternoon sunshine. Several times he stumbled, leaving Halbarad to grab his arm and navigate him past smirking Dol Amrothian soldiers.

"Ah 'tis, Neville Longbottom! How fare you this fine day, young Wizard?" cried one.

Stupid question. How did he look like he was faring?

"It seems our fearless Istar has met his match in the vines of Anfalas!" said another, eliciting a round of good-natured laughter from his colleagues that made Neville wince.

"Fear not, young Wizard. 'Tis naught a freshly boiled partridge head cannot cure. One simply sucks out its brains and eyes ..."

The helpful suggestion made Neville keel over again, heaving violently.

"Must you tease him so? I have barely managed to convince him to leave his quarters!" said Halbarad irritably, and the soldiers promptly dissipated shamefacedly, leaving the ranger to haul Neville up once more. "Harken not to them. They mean well, but sometimes their merriment overrides their sense of decorum."

Hah! Neville would like to override them with an Oliphaunt, if there were any left to be had. Why, oh why had he ever thought it was a good idea to try and drink Erchirion under the table? Oh, if he ever saw a wine glass again, he might very well cry.

Composing himself (yet again) he allowed his friend to lead him round the back of Elphir's tent and past the blue-and-white clad guards hovering outside the entrance. The princes of Dol Amroth were sitting cross-legged on the grass by a small fire over which a frying pan was magically suspended, and Molly bustled happily about serving them all enormous plates of fragrant food.

"Oh, there you are Neville!" she cried upon spotting him. He clapped his hands to his ears in protest. Why did everyone feel the need to shout all of a sudden? He wasn't deaf. Dying, but not deaf.

His Guardian thrust an enormous pile of eggs and sausages Elphir's way before abandoning him to wrap her arms around Neville in one of her wonderful motherly hugs. Pulling back, she observed his bloodshot eyes and grey hue critically, flinching when he mumbled a hello.

"Been sick by any chance, have you?" she asked, wrinkling her nose. "You might have rinsed your mouth out afterwards!"

"I did," he whispered hoarsley. "But then I was sick again. D'you know what someone suggested as a cure for a hangover?"

No! He _refused_ to think about it!

"Dear, oh dear." Molly shook her head, trying not to smile. "Well, sit yourself down. A nice breakfast will do wonders in absorbing all that alcohol; you'll soon feel better, dear!"

Fat chance. He'd survived the Battles of the Department of Mysteries, Astronomy Tower, Hogwarts, Lothlórien, Parth Galen, Helm's Deep, Harondor, and - most recently - the Plains of South Gondor, only to be offed now by the vineyards of Anfalas. Personally, he hoped the ruddy place got swallowed up by the sea and was never heard of again.

"No point in eating, Molly. I'll just chuck it all back up again."

"Don't be silly! You have to eat something. However will you get your strength back?" she exclaimed.

He'd never get his strength back. He was officially dying, couldn't she see that?

Sitting (falling) down next to his noble chums, he smiled weakly at them, knowing they would at least sympathise with his misery, After all, they had drank far more than him. But much to his disgust, they looked as fresh as a field of daisies.

"Well met, son of Longbottom," grinned Elphir, looking horribly chipper. "How fare you this morn?"

If one more person asked him that – just one more – he would Petrify them. No exceptions.

Opting not to voice this sentiment, he simply bent his knees up and rested his head against them, hoping they got the message, and thus he missed the amused looks the princes shared with their captain and Halbarad.

"Poor child. It seems he has never been so deeply in his cups before," said Erchirion sympathetically. "But fear not, young Neville! Experience will harden you to the effects soon enough. Soon you shall be able to rebound from them with nary a grumble!"

No. He wouldn't. Because Neville would rather snog Professor Snape's rotting corpse than ever touch a drop of alcohol again. End of.

"Don't tease him, boys. Can't you see he's feeling a little peaky?" said Molly, withdrawing a bottle from her bag.

Peaky was an understatement.

"I feel terrible," he corrected her.

"Still? Then I am glad to hear it." This from Aglador, who had just joined them (wearing a distinctly shabbier pair of boots than he'd worn earlier that day). He took a seat as far away from the green-gilled teenager as was politely acceptable.

Ignoring him, Neville said, "I feel like I've just gone ten rounds with a Hebridean Black, and lost."

"A what?" asked Elphir curiously.

"Big Scottish dragon. Like Professor McGonagall, but without the accent. And not as clever," he added belatedly.

The Gondorians shivered en masse.

Molly thrust a small glass of a peach-coloured liquid into Neville's hand. "Drink that. It's Calamity Kopfweh's Instant Hangover Cure. You'll feel better in a minute, I promise you."

"Could've done with this half an hour ago," he mumbled before swallowing it.

"Yes, but that wouldn't have left you any time to learn a valuable lesson, would it?" she retorted just a bit too smugly.

Great. Just great. How did poor Ron and Ginny put up with this?

But Molly was right; despite the strong sense of sympathy for her children, Neville felt a whole lot better a whole lot faster. His head cleared, his stomach settled – it even growled – and suddenly he felt as if he could eat a horse. Not that he would (there were too many witnesses). Besides, Fæleu was growing on him after all.

"I feel brilliant!" he said with a sudden huge grin.

Halbarad and the others raised their eyebrows collectively..

"So swiftly?"

"Yeah. I feel brilliant. Like I could … like I could, I don't know ..."

"Move without ruining a poor man's best boots?" griped Aglador.

"You are no more poor than I am a princess!" exclaimed Erchirion with a laugh, as Neville sprang up, stretched on the spot, and did a few rounds of the fire to prove how robust he was.

"See? Perfectly healthy!" Good enough to stretch, jog ..."

"Good enough to teach us another song?" interjected Halbarad, looking up at the teenager in a very sly manner indeed. The tone he used effectively put a halt to Neville's impromptu aerobics display.

"Er, now?" he asked, rummaging through his fuzzy memory of the morning's events as he eyed them with some trepidation. "That daft one about the scar? You already know it."

"Indeed we do," smirked Aglador. "But do you do not recall the others? They were most … interesting."

Uh oh. He didn't recall any more at all. Which meant this wasn't going to be good …

Delighted by his sudden look of apprehension, the four Middle-earthlings began to warble in unison:

_And Frodo the hero, they called him a gnome_

_To his face, and he moaned, then got mad_

_They claimed it a jest, but he gave a great shout_

_And he swore at them all, which was bad._

Even Molly sniggered, but Neville was relieved. After all, it could've been worse.

"There was also the fascinating verse about the Dark Lord," grinned Elphir. "What manner of poem did you say it was, my lady?"

"Oh, I do wish you'd all just call me 'Molly', dears," sighed the witch, handing a heaped plate to Neville. "But it was a limerick – and quite a clever one given how much wine he'd swallowed by that point."

Feeling her disapproving gaze burning a hole through his head, her charge suddenly became fascinated with the huge breakfast she shoved his way, and he tore into a nice fat sausage with relish.

Elphir slapped his thigh victoriously. "Ah. A limerick! 'Twas most amusing. I shall recite it for you, son of Longbottom, though it is a challenge to use such peculiar vernacular. Yet it is so vastly amusing, and I daresay you will never recall it otherwise if do not remind you:

_Sauron you're a bloody disgrace_

_the scourge of the whole human race_

_you're so out of touch_

_we'd thank you so much_

_if you'd shoot yourself in the face!"_

Elphir's expression was such a picture of happy satisfaction at managing the strange dialect that he received more appreciation for that than the actual verse.

"I wish he would shoot himself in the face," grumbled Neville as he shovelled a forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth.

"But the best by far was the sweet song of secret lovers. Do you recall it?"

What? _Neville_, sing a mushy love song? Did he look like Aragorn?

Oh, no! What if he'd been so drunk that he'd started on Gran's Celestina Warbeck back catalogue? No. It was too horrible to contemplate.

Shaking his head vociferously, he mumbled around his eggs that they must have made some kind of mistake.

"There was no mistake, young Wizard," assured Halbarad between sips of tea. "Fortunately for you, I have an excellent memory, so permit me to refresh yours, that you may enjoy it as much as we did."

_Rosmerta I love you_

_Rosmerta I do_

_though you may have years on me_

_I fancy you_

**o0o**

_You're so nice and curvy_

_experienced too_

_if we snogged I know I'd learn_

_a thing or two_

**o0o**

_Rosmerta squeeze me_

_Rosmerta please_

_sparkly eyes and glittery heels_

_you're such a tease!_

Neville turned a very unflattering shade of puce while stealing a cautious look at Molly. That ruddy song was Ron's! He'd been warbling it in the boys' dormitory ever since his first trip to Hogsmeade; but the Weasley mother clearly had no knowledge of that fact and was frowning at Neville instead …

"Neville Longbottom! She's old enough to be your mother!" hissed Molly, looking completely scandalised.

The others were laughing hysterically. Fervently hoping they choked, the teenager could only grin sheepishly at Molly.

Oh well. What happened in the boys' dormitory stayed in the boys' dormitory – that was an unspoken rule (and the only reason Hermione had never caught wind of that particular song). It seemed that Neville was going to have to have to take one for the team.

But Ron owed him _big_ time.

"I was only thirteen, Molly. It's a delicate age for a boy. Besides, Rosmerta _is_ quite ..."

Fantastically curvy. Seriously sexy. You'd have to be either blind or dead not to give her a second look.

" … quite pretty," he finished diplomatically. "For a woman of her age."

For a woman of any age. Neville_ completely_ understood where Ron was coming from (though he'd die before admitting it).

"Boys!" muttered the red-haired witch, but she was smiling even as she shook her head. Placing a flowery teapot amidst the collection of mugs sitting on yet another upturned crate that was serving as a rustic table, she pocketed her wand. "Well, you can all help yourselves to tea. I'm off to the healers' tent. We had quite the night with one of the wounded – he still seems to think the ghosts of Rohan are after him, poor thing. I had to force feed him the last of my Sleeping Draughts before he would settle. No, don't get up. I've already eaten. I'll see you shortly."

With that, she bustled away across the plain to assist the healers, leaving the five men to their breakfasts. For a while the good-natured banter continued, and nearly half an hour was spent swapping stories of times gone by, something which intrigued Neville no end. He had never spent so much time in the company of Muggles before (or Super-Squibs, as Molly insisted on referring to them) and – even though they were worlds apart from the Muggles of modern times - he was genuinely fascinated by their histories, their colourful ancestors, their own childhoods, and the unswerving devotion each felt for their peoples. It was humbling and inspiring to hear them talk, and Neville felt genuine sympathy for the struggles of the Rangers of the North in particular, once proud and noble rulers in their own right who had been left wandering since the last Dúnedain stronghold was destroyed in the Battle of Fornost over a thousand years since.

But then, inevitably, the conversation turned to the future, as he knew it would, and he was not looking forward to having another discussion with Halbarad about their next destination. Neville simply couldn't understand Halbarad's reasoning, for it seemed plain to him that the only place left for them to go now was Minas Tirith. He dwelt for a moment on the grizzly ranger's explanation for returning to Dol Amroth, on the necessity for it to be defended in the event the Battle of the Plains did not go in their favour. However, that had not proved to be the case: the army of Dol Amroth was victorious. Spectacularly so. So surely now it made more sense to head north than turn back west?

Well, Halbarad could return to Dol Amroth if he wanted to. As for Neville, come what may, he was heading for a busman's holiday in Minas Tirith, and no one would stop him – not when it was the Valar's particular wish that he helped protect the Fellowship. And now that he had taken care of the collateral damage caused by his confrontation with Sauron in the Palantír, he could not, in all good faith, ignore the wishes of Varda any longer. Not without good reason; and if Halbarad refused to give him good reason, then Neville had no choice but to leave, reunite with the remnant Fellowship, and continue his Valar-appointed mission to rid Middle-earth of the biggest eyesore any planet had ever seen.

"You are strangely silent, Neville Longbottom. Pray, what has captured your thoughts so?"

It was Elphir, who was looking at the teenager thoughtfully. But it was Halbarad who answered.

"I suspect he ponders our next move."

Neville raised his head to face the grey-eyed ranger, and he nodded. There was a determined look on his face that gave the older man pause, and Halbarad sighed, knowing what was about to be said.

He might have known it, but he never heard, for just then a shrill feminine scream pierced the pleasant afternoon. Soldiers looked around in confusion before pinpointing its location, and dozens of them sprang from their seats and began racing across the plain towards the healers' tent. With one foreboding look at each other, Neville's party followed suit; but before they got far a guard came pounding their way.

"My lords! My lords! You must come. There has been an incident in the healers' tent. It is the Lady Molly – she is being held hostage!"

Shock robbed Neville of breath, stopping him in his tracks. He grabbed the guard forcibly by the arm.

"What do you mean, 'hostage'?"

"One of the prisoners – he who is yet caught in the delirium – attacked her as she made to change his dressings. She has been injured by a blade we use for cutting stitches. Forgive us, for it happened so quickly she had not time to draw her staff. We have tried reasoning with him, but he is beyond all words! He holds the lady hostage; you must come, for the prisoner is so wild with fever that we fear what may happen next!"

No further explanation was required: already Halbarad was a goodly way across the plains, and Neville - sick with shock and worry - and the others were hot on his heels.

How could this have happened? How could Molly be hurt? wondered Neville frantically. The Light of Varda was supposed to protect her – it was the one stipulation he had insisted upon when accepting Varda's request. Had the Light failed for some reason? Had Molly inadvertently lost it during one of the many battles they had participated in? Was it lying lost and forgotten in one of the many fields of slaughter they had seen since their arrival?

Something even worse occurred to him then. Had Molly accidentally dropped it during the Battle of Harondor? Was the Light of Varda languishing at the bottom of the sea? It was a prospect which left him reeling. But how could that possibly be? Molly couldn't have lost it - Neville had witnessed with his own two eyes as she used a semi-permanent Sticking Charm to secure it to herself.

What was he thinking about? These were questions for later! Right now Molly was hurt, and she needed him!

Halbarad's long legs had already delivered him to the healers' tent, and the others were still racing to catch up. Guards circled the perimeter cautiously, weapons drawn, most of them itching to storm it, but a shouted command from Elphir made them pause. Loud yells emitted from inside the tent, all in a language he couldn't understand. The only voice he recognised was Halbarad's; the ranger spoke in the Haradrim's tongue, attempting to cajole the delirious man into standing out. It must not have worked, though, for there was a crash and Neville heard Molly cry out in pain. It put wind beneath his wings, speeding him faster than he had ever ran before. Just as he reached the tent flap, a feminine voice screamed, 'Halbarad, no!', followed by a terrible masculine yell.

For a moment there was dead silence, then the circling soldiers stormed the tent. Neville was beside himself with panic as he raced over the last few feet of grass. Was Molly injured?_ Could_ she really be injured? If so, how badly? Was she ..?

No! He couldn't even think the word. It was impossible!

Reaching the colourful pavilion, he thrust aside the flap and dove inside. It was a chaotic scene of heaving bodies, panicked cries in many different languages, and an upturned cot. Most of the patients lay still and terrified in their beds as grim-faced Gondorians hovered over them warningly with swords unsheathed; many of the prisoners were pleading for mercy. Dismissing them, his eyes swung right, finding more terrified patients, then they swung left …

Brown eyes widened in disbelief.

Elphir and Aglador were attempting to restrain the wild-eyed Haradrim soldier who, despite having lost one leg, was putting up an incredible struggle. Blood dripped from his mouth, and caught between his teeth was something that looked horribly like human tissue. For one excruciating moment Neville froze, terrified that – against all odds – the man had taken a chunk out of his Guardian. But the sound of the Haradrim's screams, escalating anew, snapped him out of it. It seemed the enemy had caught sight of Neville, and it was sending him into new heights of hysteria. His mouth opened into a snarl, the flesh it held falling noiselessly to the grass, and his struggles to flee became more ferocious as a result. He screamed and cursed and spat like a maniac, struggling so fiercely to break free that his able-bodied captors were having a real problem controlling him. At one point they nearly collapsed in a heap across the upturned cot.

Having seen enough, Neville raised his wand and Petrified the deranged Haradrim, who froze on the spot. An unnatural silence fell temporarily, then he registered groans issuing from behind fallen cot, Quickly, Neville pushed his way past the grim-faced soldiers, emerging into a scene of horror. Molly lay propped up by a thick wooden tent pole next to the Haradrim's bed, her face ashen, a trickle of blood oozing from a small cut on her neck, and her left leg bent at an awkward angle. Next to her, lying with his head on her lap in a pool of his own blood, was Halbarad; Molly had bunched her reddening cardigan against what must be a wound to his throat, and the obvious assumption could only be that the deranged Haradrim had badly mauled it.

"Molly! Halbarad! What the bloody hell ..?"

Molly's face was chalk-white, and her voice shook noticably, though she made a concerted effort to get it under control.

"Language, dear," she said, trying to smile. She wasn't fooling anyone, though, and a spasm of pain made her face harden. "Get me my wand – it rolled under that table." She pointed across the tent, and Neville Summoned it instantly as the healers converged on her and Halbarad. "No! Get back! I need my knapsack – if you argue, I swear I'll hex you all into next week!"

"Molly, we need to move Halbarad off you," insisted Neville, bending down next to her. After a quick assessment, and a hasty _Episkey_ to the cut on her neck, he was at least satisfied that her injuries weren't life-threatening, though her leg was probably broken.

Unlike Halbarad. His injuries were serious: the wound underneath Molly's cardigan had to be significant given the massive blood loss, he was waxy-faced, his eyes wide in fright. Incredibly, the ranger tried to speak, but managed only to emit a horrible sort of gurgle.

"Keep quiet!" ordered Molly tersely, who trembled as she accepted her wand from Neville. She pulled the bloody cardigan carefully away to reveal an ugly tear over Halbarad's throat, and there were visible teeth marks around it. Erchirion sagged against the upturned bed, but several healers bustled him out the way as they headed for the injured duo.

"Stay back! She knows what she's doing!" warned Neville, holding out a hand to ward them off. Reluctantly, they paused to hover for a moment before spotting the Petrified Haradrim. He was removed within seconds, mercifully giving the others more space.

"Halbarad tackled the patient after he got a hold of one of those stitch-cutter thingys and held it to my throat," explained Molly shakily, as she prodded the ghastly wound with her wand. It was still bleeding profusely, red liquid pooling lightly in the grooves created by the Haradrim's dentistry. Ignoring her own pain for the moment, Molly closed her eyes, concentrating as she mumbled while tracing her wand over Halbarad's throat. It began to glow softly, but it was so deep, and the damage so severe, that Neville feared it was simply beyond repair.

With baited breath they waited: Elphir, Erchirion, Aglador, Neville, and half a dozen hovering healers, all fearing the worst. Finally, after five long minutes fraught with fear, the flesh began to knit together once more. Not realising they had been holding their breaths, everyone exhaled in one noisy rush.

"Get him onto a bed now!" ordered Molly, "Neville, help me up. He'll need blood replenishing potion – I only hope there's still enough left!"

"Molly, you can't move with your leg like that. How the ruddy hell did you manage to break it anyway? Where's the Light of Varda?"

"_Not now, Neville!_ Splint my leg for the moment if you must - there's more than enough Skele-grow to set it right come morning – but Halbarad might still die of shock, so _get me off this floor instantly!_"

Unwilling to carry on this line of conversation when Halbarad's life hung in the balance, he complied. With the aid of Erchirion, they gently aided Halbarad onto a fresh cot on the other side of the tent, then helped Molly into one next to him while she valiantly stifled her whimpers of pain. Aglador and Erchirion, with a couple of healers in tow, converged on Halbarad for the time being, busying themselves cutting away his bloody clothes, washing him down and generally tending to him until Molly was ready to do what she had to in order to ensure he lived.

Aware that time was of the essence, Neville and Elphir hurriedly tended the witch. After a very distressing few minutes spent straightening her wounded limb, a pale-faced Molly conjured a splint for her leg and managed a glassful of Skele-grow.

"Neville," she gasped thereafter, clearly exhausted. "I don't think I'm going to be able to administer Halbarad's Potions after all, not when the Skele-grow's about to start working. You'll have to do it."

What? Not for no reason did Neville barely scrape an acceptable in his Potions OWL - he couldn't tell a Blood-replenishing Potion from a Draught of the Living Death. What if he sent the ranger into an eternal coma? If he could even get Halbarad to swallow – the ranger was unconscious.

"Molly ..." he began worriedly, but she shushed him.

"Don't be such a worry-wart! Just Summon the potion from my knapsack," she said, wincing as she passed it to him.

He complied, and several bottles of the precious liquid jumped out at once, landing softly on her cot. There were almost a dozen left, which came as a relief to the witch. Neville unstoppered one on command.

"Now, make sure he drinks the lot," she mumbled, sagging tiredly into the pillows. "And another one every four hours until he's had three altogether. We don't need to worry about running short any more; but even so, make sure he doesn't get more than three altogether or there's a danger he'll start clotting too much. The last thing we need is for him to end up having a heart attack, or a stroke."

Elphir remained with Molly as Neville cleared a space around Halbarad's bed. The ranger's limbs were elevated, he was bundled up in blankets to preserve warmth, but there was a clammy sheen to his waxy face that worried Neville deeply, and he still looked two breaths away from death. Foregoing a glass, Neville instructed that his body be raised, and Aglador and Erchirion hurriedly complied. Rousing Halbarad took more effort, and more again to get him to swallow an entire flask of potion when he could barely draw breath, but somehow they managed it. Thus, looking a little less ashen, the ranger was propped against a pile of pillows, and everyone took positions around the two cots to wait the night out.

Several hours later, the process of feeding him Blood-replenishing potions was repeated; thankfully, Halbarad was a little more cooperative, and his friends sighed in relief as yet more colour returned to his cheeks. Deeming him well enough to be left to the care of the healers, the princes and Aglador rose tiredly, dismissed the majority of the soldiers, who had remained with their swords drawn the whole time, so that only a few remained to keep guard. Not that anyone was expecting more trouble; the wounded prisoners had been both terrified by the sight of their manic colleague spitting and screaming, and deeply ashamed that he had struck out at a woman, even if she was a witch.

As for the Petrified Haradrim, he had been removed elsewhere, guarded by half a dozen soldiers in a tent of his own. Bewitched as he was, he gave them no further trouble, but Neville knew he couldn't remain like that forever.

"It's not a long-term spell," he informed Elphir as they left the healers' tent and headed for the prisoner's own one. "At least, it's not meant to be. We can't treat his stump properly if he remains under it much longer, so it'll have to be lifted."

This announcement did not sit well with the Prince of Dol Amroth.

"I am loathe to revive him for fear that his mind plays tricks on him again. It might even be kinder to put him out of his misery."

"You can't put him down! He's not a dog, he's just frightened. Can you blame him? The ghosts, the marble army, the headless horsemen – half your men would've been running screaming for the hills if they hadn't been in on the plan too. All that poor git wants is to get away from here as quickly as possible."

"I did not say we would slay him! I know he fears only for his life. But we must count ourselves fortunate that Halbarad and Molly were rescued so quickly; this may not be the case a second time."

"There won't be a second time," insisted Neville. "I'll bind him to the bed if I have to, but he needs to recover enough to be removed, and removed fast. When he's well enough, his friends can carry him home on a litter – in fact, the sooner the better. Familiar surroundings will go a long way towards calming him down. One thing's for sure, he'll never want to set foot in Gondor again.

Especially as it was the only foot he had left.

So it was agreed. Neville bound the man's wrists to the bed, lifted the Petrificus Totalus spell from their enemy, and – before he could start screaming again - hit him with the mother of all Cheering Charms for good measure (a trick he learned from Molly). Prince and wizard left him singing (a bawdy Haradrim song about exotic, full-bosomed maidens, or so Elphir translated it) as they departed.

With a promise to notify him of any change in their conditions, Neville bid Elphir goodnight and returned to the healers' tent, where he promptly fell into a deep sleep slumped on a chair between Molly and Halbarad's cots.

**XXX**

The next morning dawned overcast, with a promise of rain in the air. Neville awoke to find Molly's cot empty, and flew up in a panic.

"Where is she?" he demanded of the healer tending to Halbarad.

"Fear not, lord. The lady witch rose ere dawn looking astonishingly well for one who incurred such an injury, Witch's magic is wondrous indeed! See what it has done for the Lord Halbarad!"

The healer waved a long arm at the ranger, who did look remarkably pinker than he had twelve hours earlier. Yet he was still a little paler than normal.

"He has slept all night, other than when he swallowed the last of the wondrous Blood potion. I tell you, without it, he would surely have died! What great fortune for him that you both were here. Great fortune for us all, Lord Neville."

Too relieved to see Halbarad looking infinitely healthier to note that he was being addressed with the honorific title, the young wizard sagged in relief. "How's he doing otherwise?"

"The Lady Molly believes he will recover, but it will be a slow process. She is not a … I cannot recall precisely the term she used … but she claims she is not a proper healer of her world, and managed only what was necessary to stave off the immediate danger to the Dúnedain's life. Though this was indeed achieved, such was the damage to his neck that her magic was able to do little more than stop the bleeding and close the torn flesh on his throat. But the Haradrim, in his fever, bit deeply enough to sever the captain's vocal cords. Though magic has repaired that too, such was the insult to his throat that it may be a while ere he speaks again, if ever."

Compared to what might have happened, this was actually good news. So Halbarad might not speak again, but he would live. And, given time, who knew? He might recover enough to drop the odd witty one-liner at Neville's expense. Or confront him for heading off to Minas Tirith against his express wishes.

Which reminded him; Neville had a confrontation of his own on the cards, and if his Guardian thought she could avoid it by sneaking off at first light, then she had another think coming …

"Take care of him, will you? I'll be back shortly to say goodbye."

"You are not leaving?" asked the healer, looking surprised.

"Yes. But not for an hour or two yet. Do me a favour, though."

"Anything, lord."

Bloody hell.

"Please stop calling me 'lord'."

"If that is what you wish, Lord Neville."

For Merlin's sake!

Giving it up as a bad lot, he made his actual request, which was to ensure that Halbarad did not learn of Neville's intentions before the teenager revealed them to him personally. With assurances that this would be the case, Neville left the healers' tent in search of his Guardian.

It was not difficult to find her, he simply headed for the prettiest, pinkest tent on the field (Lothiriel had insisted that Molly make use of her personal one, stating that, 'Menfolk have no comprehension of the basics we ladies require. They cannot help it, they are simply witless that way').

Stepping inside, he was astonished to find her reorganising her knapsack.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asked, feeling more than a little peeved that she had slipped so easily from his sight that morning.

Molly didn't turn. Instead, with the use of her wand, she continued arranging and repacking the remaining foodstuffs, potions, plants, clothes, and various other assorted articles spread about the floor.

Crikey. Was that a stack of _Daily Prophets_ she'd packed? What the bloody hell for? And what else did she have shoved in that bag of hers?

"That's a silly question, Neville," she said, answering the one he'd actually verbalised. "What does it look like I'm doing? We have to get organised if we're leaving today."

"We? What makes you think you're going anywhere? Is your leg even healed properly?"

She threw him a quick frown. "Well of course it's healed. You've had Skele-grow before, haven't you? So you ought to know!"

He did, but he was playing for time so he could organise his thoughts, which was why his next question was a request for her to relate what had happened in the healers' tent, as opposed to what he really wanted to ask.

"Oh, the poor man was delirious – kept thinking I was going to attack him. Frightened in case I turned into a ghost again, I imagine. Nothing we said seemed to calm him. So when I pulled out my wand to Summon my first aid kit – it's got all the potions in it, you know – well, he went berserk. Grabbed it right out of my hand and threw it away. Some idiot left that Muggle stitch-cutter thingy on his bedside table and he grabbed me by the throat when I reached out to catch my wand. I got nicked with the blade when Halbarad charged him, and we all toppled backwards; Halbarad landed on top of me, the Haradrim on top of Halbarad and he was soon savaging his throat. It was awful, dear! Blood everywhere. It was as much as Elphir could do to get poor Halbarad free before he was killed outright. Oh, where _is_ my Cleansweep, for Merlin's sake!"

It was clear that she was trying to put on a brave face, but the shock of it all was finally gripping her; she sniffled, and her shoulders were shaking. Sparing no thought, Neville crossed over, turned her about, and held her awkwardly in his arms while she wept. A few minutes later, she pulled away, sniffed (massively), and wiped her face with a cold cloth from the flowery washing bowl sitting on the carved ebony table (not for Lothiriel an upturned crate).

Neville watched her with concern, trying to fight the panic that was swelling in him.

"Where's the Light of Varda, Molly?" he asked, trying to keep his tone even.

Dropping the cloth, she took an inordinately long time patting her face dry with a matching towel.

"Molly? Seriously, where is the Light of Varda? If you've lost it, we really have to find it, 'cos if one of Sauron's rotten pals gets their hands on it ..."

Neville trailed off, struck by the odd look on her face. His question had not sent her grappling at her chest for the hallowed pendant, which it should have; nor did it engender a look of horrified panic on her face. Instead, she looked almost ...

There was no other word for it. _Guilty._

A horrible suspicion began creeping into his mind then.

"Molly," he asked, and this time his tone was distinctly challenging. "What in Merlin's name have you done with the Light of Varda?"

Brown eyes watched him nervously.

"Now, Neville dear, you must understand. You nearly died!" she began as his eyes widened in realisation. "I promised to protect you, didn't I? But I didn't do much of a job of it back in Helm's Deep, did I? What if I hadn't been able to save you? What if something had happened to you at Harondor? Or here? I ... I just couldn't have lived with myself!"

He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Was she honestly trying to tell him that she had put the Light of Varda around _his_ neck? To save him?

Neville thrust a hand down his t-shirt, groping for the pretty necklace, but could feel nothing. Confused, he looked up to find Molly had come to a halt before him and was wringing her hands together.

"What would I say to Augusta if something happened to you, hmm?"

"Where is it, Molly?" he hissed, louder than he'd intended. Weasley eyes suddenly narrowed.

"You won't find it. I've placed it under Semi-permanent Sticking and Notice-Me-Not charms."

She was right, no matter how much Neville rummaged down his t-shirt, he couldn't locate it. He even pulled the t-shirt off and stormed towards the elaborately gilded mirror, but saw nothing other than the healing scar of the orc arrow on his left arm.

"Remove the charms," he demanded, whirling back round to face her. "Remove them now and get this bloody pendant back on your own neck where it belongs, or I'll do it myself."

Brown eyes flashed angrily. "Language, Neville!"

"Don't try to mother me at a time like this!" he snapped, angrier than he had ever been. "The only reason I agreed to let you come here with me was under the absolute assurance of your safety. You had no right to circumvent that. None!"

"Don't you dare speak to me like that, Neville Longbottom!" she barked. "It was my decision to come here, not yours to allow me. And – if you recall correctly – Manwë charged us both with the protection of it._ 'Use what magic thou hast to ensure that it remains with ye both for the duration of thy time in Middle Earth'_ – those were his exact words!"

"_'Do not remove it until thy quest is complete! To do so may be to plunge thyself into darkest despair'_ – those were Varda's exact words!" returned her charge. A thought occurred to him then.

Oh. My. Merlin. That would explain some of her behaviour …

"How long, exactly, have I been wearing this?" asked Neville suddenly, pointing at his bare chest.

Molly hesitated before answering. "Since you had that bezoar back in Helm's Deep."

Which was more than ten days ago. His Guardian had been floating about Arda, unprotected, and in danger of plunging into a black depression at the drop of a hat, for well over a week now. No wonder she reacted so badly to the sight of Aragorn's twin brothers, and all the wounded soldiers in the glittery caves (or whatever they were called).

Determined not to put her through that again, he calmly unsheathed his wand, directed it at his chest in general, and said "Finite Incantatem". But barely had he begun to feel the weight of the Light of Varda on his chest when Molly Summoned his wand. Stunned, he gaped at her.

"What the ruddy heck do you think you're doing?" he demanded.

It was at this point Elphir walked in. "Lady Molly! Why have you risen so ..."

He trailed off, grinding to a halt at the sight of the angry witch aiming her wand at her charge.

"Molly, whatever you're thinking of doing, don't," whispered Neville, trying to sound reasonable. "Think of Mr Weasley. Think of your children. You need this more than I do, we both know that."

But she was having none of it.

"They have each other. Who does your grandmother have? An idiot that hangs his nephew out of a window to see if he's magical? No, Neville. I'm sorry, dear, but that's just not good enough."

She raised her wand.

"Molly, no! _What are you doing?_"

That soon became clear when she fired a Permanent Sticking Charm at him. He experienced a peculiar sensation as the pendant adhered itself almost lovingly to his chest.

Staggered beyond words, he could only gape at her stupidly as she willingly returned his wand.

"There," she said in a very high voice. "I swore I would protect you, and now I have, and that's that. There's nothing either of us can do to change it now, so you might as well stop complaining and accept it."

"Might I be so bold and enquire as to what has just occurred?" asked Elphir in confusion.

"I was just checking Neville's arrow wound," said Molly, sniffing suspiciously. "He's always shy about taking his shirt off, silly boy. You'd think I'd never seen a naked teenager before."

The prince frowned. "Is it so serious that his daernaneth might be left devoid of him? Or the treatment so intense that your own kin might be left devoid of you?" he asked, trying to marry her sketchy explanation to the conversation he had inadvertently become privy to.

"Not any more. Everything is perfectly … perfect now. And yes, my leg is perfectly perfect, too. So, if you don't mind, I need to finish packing."

"You have heard already that we depart for Dol Amroth on the morrow? How peculiar. I have only just made the decision."

Not trusting himself to look at his Guardian, Neville swallowed heavily, donned his t-shirt, and turned to his Gondorian friend.

"I'm not going back, sir. Not to Dol Amroth. Not just now anyway. You go – take Halbarad with you. He'll need time to recover."

Behind him, he heard Molly falter in her task, and knew she was listening closely. Well, let her. She would definitely not like what he was about to say next, but then, she only had herself to blame.

He offered a silent prayer to the Valar that his eardrums would survive the imminent bombshell.

"Molly will also go with you, just in case she's needed, though I doubt it. Besides, she'll need to keep an eye on Halbarad, to make sure he's recovering well."

"Wait just _one_ minute, Neville Longbottom ..." began the red-haired witch.

"No," he interrupted her. "It'll be safer for you to go back with Elphir, now that you're not wearing ... _it_."

Elphir's puzzlement deepened. "Wizard stuff," lied Neville, and the prince 'aah-ed' aloud.

As for Molly, Neville could almost hear her fizzing with anger behind him, but it was confirmed when a loud thud indicated that she had dropped her knapsack. She stomped his way with enough force to make even Gimli proud, and faced him, arms akimbo. Elphir backed away in alarm.

"Not in a thousand years are you getting rid of me that easily, Neville Longbottom!" she fumed, waggling a finger at him. "_Keep an eye on Halbarad? Safer for me?"_

She took a massive breath, puce with indignation.

"In case it slipped your notice – which it probably did given that _you_ were the one at death's door in the Glittering Caves, not me - I managed very well for the remainder of the Battle of Helm's Deep without any special protection!"

Unfortunately, that was true.

"I came back from Harondor without so much as a scratch!"

Another valid point.

"Not even the arrows of _three and a half thousand_ sneaky southerners could touch me!"

Southrons, actually. And, technically speaking, they weren't all Southrons; many of them had been Haradrim.

"And -" she took a dangerous step forward, repeatedly poking him in the chest so hard, that he began to think the Light of Varda might not be all it was cracked up to be "- you seem to be forgetting Bellatrix Lestrange. Do you honestly think a few thousand orcs have anything on her? And who killed her? You? No. _I _did! So don't for _one minute _think I'm some silly hothead who needs to be protected from herself, because I am _well aware _of my own abilities; I am _more than capable_ of defending myself, and I _absolutely will not_ be mothered by someone who's doesn't even have his first chest hair yet!"

Oh, that was low. That was _really_ low. Elphir even threw him a pitying glance, which made Neville feel worse.

"Fine! All right! You win!" he exclaimed, throwing his hands up in defeat. "But at least promise me that, if we hurtle straight into a battle, you'll stay on the Cleansweep. No hand-to-hand-combat. No rabid Haradrim catching you off guard with a Muggle stitch-thingy. Stay on your Cleansweep. You're a much more difficult target that way!"

She huffed in irritation. "Stay on my Cleansweep! In the name of Merlin! Seen me master the art of horse-riding at any point since we arrived, have you?"

Her tone was so reminiscent of Ginny at her sarcastic best that Neville guffawed, and once he started, he couldn't stop. Before long, Molly was in stitches beside him, and even Elphir was chuckling (though his had more a ring of vast relief than true amusement to it).

With the tension dispelled, and assured of Molly's good health once more, Elphir departed to allow them to pack what they needed. With his consent, it had been decided that they would take the Marble Army. If Elphir heard word from Aragorn before they abandoned camp tomorrow, he and his men would follow wizard and witch in due course.

After leaving to pack his own knapsack, then bidding Fæleu farewell for the time being (he had no idea why he did this, but it seemed rude not to after she had performed so brilliantly in their recent battle. In fact, there was a part of him that almost wished the moody mare was coming with him; but unless she had suddenly learned to fly as fast as a Cleansweep, that was out of the question), Neville returned once again to Molly's tent. Having now resigned himself to the fact that the Light of Varda was his for the time being (whether he liked it or not), it soon occurred to him that Molly's desperate act presented them with a new dilemma.

"You do realise that that was a _Permanent_ Sticking Charm you used," he informed her.

"Of course I realise that," she said, eyeing his messy hair speculatively before whipping out a comb and (much to his embarrassment) attacking it forcefully (which he allowed her to, for the sake of maintaining peaceful relations. It would not do to make himself the target of her wrath again).

"Then … ouch! … how do you … ouch! … plan to ge ..._ouch!_ … get it back off me?"

She paused mid-comb (much to his relief), sniffed, then started attacking his hair again. "Oh, I'm sure we'll think of something."

That was not very comforting. He had heard from Ginny of the immovable (screaming) portrait of Sirius Black's charming mother, which hung in the Black Household. Ginny had even attempted the charm herself, to hang a very unflattering sketch of Alecto Carrow up in the Gryffindor Common Room (one which depicted her passionately snogging a corpulent Muggle's posterior). Unfortunately, it wasn't quite perfect, and Professor McGonagall whipped it down with ease the following morning after delivering a very serious lecture about what would've happened to the whole House had any of the Carrows discovered it during one of their surprise spot-checks.

"'We' had better," he said, wincing as she attacked his fringe. "I don't fancy spending the rest of my life in Valinor if we don't."

Although, that being said, there was the compensation of spending it in Varda's beauteous company. Still, that delight was tempered by the fact that the only way she'd finally get back what belonged to her was after he died, and his rotting corpse decomposed enough to finally shake the pendant loose.

Of course, Manwë might just kill him on sight for all the times Neville had ever drooled over his wife (which was a lot – though not at all since he'd met Éowyn). In which case, Varda could have her Light back within no time at all.

It was not a pleasant prospect.

"There. That's much better. If only Harry's hair was as well-behaved as yours," she added ruefully. "I don't know how that boy manages when I'm not there to tackle it. Oh, well."

Stepping back, she surveyed him critically.

"Don't you think it might be a good idea to send Aragorn a Patronus to let him know we're on our way?"

Not a bad idea, actually. Then again …

"Yeah. If he's not in the middle of a sword fight with half the orcs of Mordor. He might not appreciate the distraction, otherwise. Plus it would tip off the enemy that reinforcements are on the way. If battle's already going strong, we'll just have to join in and do our best. If it's not, we can go straight into the City and, er ..."

Actually, that final thought might not be a good idea. Boromir had already hinted that his dad wasn't the warm and fuzzy type. Somehow Neville didn't imagine he'd be too pleased if he turned up saying something along the lines of, 'Hi. We're wizards, and we're just hanging around for the future king to turn up so we can thrash Sauron then oust you. Mind if we shack up in the palace while we're waiting?'

Hmm.

They took a final look around the grand pavilion and departed, pausing to look out across the camp towards the river. Wizard and witch were lost in silence for a moment, each contemplating the journey ahead.

What if Aragorn wasn't even at Minas Tirith yet and they were rushing there for no reason? What if that was what Halbarad had been trying to tell Neville all along; that Aragorn was actually still on his way to Pelargir? Or worse, what if he, Legolas, Gimli and the Grey Company hadn't even made it out of the White Mountains alive? The King of the Dead and his ghostly mates might have had a right good laugh at the nerve of them before telling them to sod off and die (only helping them along with the dying part). Crikey, Neville's friends might even now be part of the very army they had hoped to call to their aid!

No, Neville couldn't believe that. The King of the Dead owed Aragorn in a big way. Plus, Aragorn was the only person alive who could lift the curse laid upon the Dead. They'd hardly be likely to off him in a fit of pique.

He sighed, worried that he was choosing wrong, but worried that returning to Dol Amroth would be just as bad. What if he did as Halbarad wished after all, only to realise he'd made a terrible mistake and they'd never make to Minas Tirith in time to prevent the city falling into Sauron's blazing eye?

To go, or not to go?

The frustrating thing was that they could just glimpse Pelargir from the camp on this side of the Anduin; however – as Aragorn and company were supposedly making their way there by land – nobody had a clue whether they'd arrived or not. They could be there already, or not at all, or already on their way to Minas Tirith.

Oh, for Merlin's sake! All this debating was pointless. He'd already made up his mind, hadn't he? He and Molly were packed and ready to go; and the Marble Army were already drawing a jubilant crowd.

"Shall we?" he said to Molly. She nodded, and they headed first for the healer's tent.

Molly went straight to Halbarad, who was miraculously awake. He offered her a weak smile.

"Thank you, dear," she said, bending down to kiss his brow. "You saved my life, and I won't forget it."

It was only as she stepped aside to allow Neville access that he spotted her knapsack. Grey eyes swung questioningly to Neville, then widened when he saw the boy was wearing his own. Something deep within clicked, and he seemed to guess where they were going. It was an obvious struggle, but he attempted to rise, only to be pushed gently back into the mound of pillows by the healer on the other side of his cot.

Neville felt really uncomfortable. He knew for a fact that the ranger didn't want him to go to Minas Tirith, but it was out of the teenager's hands. He had a duty to fulfil, and fulfil it he would. It was the very reason he was in Middle-earth, and it would be a poor show on his part if he crept back to Dol Amroth to wait out the war like a coward.

"Can you give us a few minutes, please?" he asked of the healer, who nodded, then departed obligingly. Taking a deep breath, he returned his gaze to his sick friend. "Molly says you'll be fine, but you lost an awful lot of blood. You'll need at least a week to recover. Elphir's taking you back to Dol Amroth – the sea air will do you good."

To be honest, Neville had no idea if that was even remotely true, but Uncle Algie was forever saying it. Mind you, Uncle Algie had once thrown Neville_ into_ the ruddy sea. Still, as long as Elphir resisted the temptation to do the same to Halbarad, the ranger should be fine.

"We've not heard from Aragorn yet, Halbarad. Time's getting on – for all we know he could be dead."

Molly shuddered.

"I mean, obviously we hope he's not, but we can't take the chance." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "You know what Frodo has to do. If Aragorn's gone, then who'll be left to rally the People of the West? Who'll distract Sauron from the main threat? I'm no leader – not by a long shot – but I'll bet my best Mimbulus Mimbletonia that Sauron'll be pretty peeved once he learns Darth Dumbledore of the United Federation of Planets flattened, not one, but two of his armies. If Aragorn doesn't turn up after all, I'll do what I can in his stead to give Frodo and Sam the chance they need to succeed; I give you my solemn word as a wizard on that."

"Nghuu," croaked the ranger desperately, grabbing Neville's Lórien cloak and pulling him forward. "Nghuu!"

"Look, I'm sorry, Halbarad," he said softly. "I know you don't want me to go to Minas Tirith, but what choice do I have? I won't let you down, though. I swear it, okay?"

Feeling like the world's biggest Slytherin, he gently released himself from Halbarad's grasp.

"Elphir says he's leaving tomorrow. Try to get some rest until then, because the journey back on the wagon might not be conducive to a decent forty winks. I'll see you again, okay? So don't do anything stupid, like try to follow and then get yourself killed in the process, 'cos I've charmed all the horses to throw you off if you dare."

Of course, he hadn't. There were far too many of them anyway (and not for a million Galleons would he go near where the Dol Amrothians had picketed them; the smell of that much horse poo was enough to make him gag). But Halbarad needn't know that …

"Anyway, take care of Fæleu for me will you? Molly and I'll be flying, because it's faster, so the grumpy nag won't be happy that I'm abandoning her."

Halbarad, realising objection was fruitless in his current condition, merely stared at Neville in worried resignation, and the sight of him made the teenager feel worse than ever. Yet he wasn't leaving to spite his friend, nor was he taking advantage of Halbarad's incapacitation to sod off and do as he pleased; Neville had thought long and hard about this, and this would have been his decision whether Halbarad had been capable of arguing his own point or not.

Bidding him a final farewell, he and Molly left, feeling regret, but also determination.

"So, this is to be our final farewell, Istari from beyond the stars," said Elphir when they reached his tent. The prince stood outside with his brother, Aglador, and many of their high-ranking knights. The Marble Army were standing to attention, and a crowd had also gathered to bid them farewell. Both were touched by the thoughtful gesture.

Molly set about enchanting the statues, sending them on ahead. The din was incredible as they stormed over to, then up the length of the river, but this time the crowd cheered them on their way, happy in the knowledge that they were about to make more of the Enemy wish they had never been born. Molly and Neville would have no problem following them on their brooms.

"Not our final farewell, I hope," said Neville, "unless you think I'm planning to chuck myself off a cliff sometime soon."

"Perhaps not a cliff, but I have seen you attempt to navigate your broom. You may well perish ere you reach the other side of camp," joked Erchirion, causing a ripple of laughter.

"You're a laugh and a half, aren't you?" retorted Neville grinning. "Don't worry, I'll make it to Minas Tirith safely enough."

"Then let us hope we see you both there, Young Wizard, Lady Witch. You need only follow the Anduin up her northern curve – do not stray from it or you might end up where you are neither needed nor welcomed. Minas Tirith lies at the base of Mount Mindolluin, which is the first peak of the White Mountains at this, their eastern end." Elphir stepped forward, taking each of their hands in turn. "We are indebted to you both for your aid to Dol Amroth – and indeed to Gondor and all Middle-earth. Let us hope that this next leg of your quest sees you victorious again, and that we may arrive in time to witness it, if that be our destiny. Fare thee well, Neville, son of Longbottom, Molly, daughter of Prewett! May the Valar ever shower good fortune upon you!"

With a final round of handshakes (and man-hugs, Merlin help him. Big _hairy_ man-hugs), Molly handed Neville her spare Cleansweep, they mounted them together and (after Neville promptly fell off his and remounted, blushing furiously), they soared into the sky and out of sight, following the Anduin north for many hours. Only once did they stop for a short rest, and the sky was significantly darker when they headed off again.

And then, just after midnight, they saw it. There, far in the distance, and shining like a candle in the darkness: a city glowing with light. But not the natural flicker of torchlight, or even the charming twinkle of Arthur Weasley's beloved eckeltricity. It was the angry red rage of fire, the hateful blaze of war.

Neville and Molly swapped a look of understanding. They had finally arrived at Minas Tirith.

And it was already under siege!

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Author's Note_: I'll reproof again tomorrow, folks. Please do R & R. I would be most grateful.

Kara's Aunty ;)


	51. Convergence

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. and Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

**Credit: **thainsbook dot net, harrypotterwikia dot com.

*****Please R & R. It really _is_ my only reward*****

**Chapter 51**

* * *

_The Plains of South Gondor_

_Third Age, 14th March 3019_

The boat slid onto the shore mid-morning, a small craft carrying but three people in hooded cloaks. Their leader, a tall man whose face was hidden from view, held out his hands to stay his companions, and all three came to a halt as a contingent of Dol Amrothian soldiers, armed with swords and spears, raced to the river to confront them.

"Who goes there?" challenged a bold Swan Knight. "Who are you that would seize Pelargir from her rightful people, then dare enter Ithilien uninvited? If you be the vanguard of an attack on these fair lands you shall die ere you take another step! Yet if you come to parley, state your name and business, lest we run you through forthwith!"

"Parley?" said the tall man taking a slow step forward. The Swan Knights raised their weapons in warning. To their surprise, the stranger held out his hands in supplication. "Since when must we parley with each other, my bold friend, lest it be to settle a squabble over the last pint in the barrel?"

"Friend, you say? Who are you that you call us friends? Reveal yourself!"

The man bowed his head gracefully. "Gladly," he said, throwing back his hood (dramatically) to reveal a noble face, dark hair, and the light of stars shining in his eyes. "I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Heir of Isildur, the Dúnadan, Thorongil of old. Many names have I, and many shall I have. Choose whichever one will furnish me with an audience with your captain the quicker, for my need is urgent! I both bear news and require news, and time is too valuable to spend whiling away on the shores of the Anduin. Take me to your lord, and make haste about it!"

Behind him, his companions also drew back their hoods, and there in all his elven glory was the shining, fair face of Legolas, and the frowning hairy mien of Gimli, son of Glóin.

"Well, what are you waiting for? A Yuletide song and dance? Did you not hear the lad – take us to your leader!" barked the dwarf impatiently (unknowingly quoting Fred the Red).

Astonishment and reverence was written on the faces of the Swan Knights, and it was with many profuse apologies that they ushered these noble newcomers through the breaking camp, past horses being saddled for the journey home, and into the tent of their lord and prince. Fortunately, the prince's pavilion was always the last to be disassembled. Unfortunately, he was not present.

"My brother shall return presently," said Erchirion, taken completely by surprise by the unexpected arrivals. "He is overseeing the transport of one of the Haradrim wounded, who is to be returned to his homeland by his brethren this very day. Pray, may I offer you some refreshments while you wait? My lord and brother should not be much longer."

Having no other choice, the three Fellowshippers refused the offered wine (Aragorn, having previous experience of the Anfalas 'delicacy', warned them off it, to Erchirion's amusement), and they each accepted instead a mug of ale. Just as Gimli partook of his (he downed it in one), the flap pulled back and Elphir entered his quarters in full mail.

"Can this be?" he said in wonder after introductions. "Has the King returned?"

"Not yet. There is much to do ere any of us celebrate that happy day, if we ever shall," said Aragorn grimly.

"I see no reason for us not to," announced Elphir loyally. "Your very presence here can only mean that you have been victorious in vanquishing the Corsairs from the port of Pelargir."

Gimli nodded. "That we have – a notably simpler task than we had anticipated."

He proceeded to tell them of the havoc caused the day previously, when – as a result of the extraordinary show of light and magic across the river the evening before – the Corsairs had quickly set about loading their ships with plundered booty, and boarding their troops thereafter, in an attempt to flee before they, too, fell victim to the terrors they had witnessed.

"'Twas unfortunate for them that we arrived in the early hours of this morning with our ghostly army, ere they had drawn their anchors," he exclaimed proudly.

Intrigued, the sons of Imrahil listened intently as Aragorn proceeded to relate how he had passed through the Paths of the Dead, summoned the Oathbreakers at the Stone of Erech, then swept through southern Gondor until they reached, and liberated, Pelargir. For his part, Elphir informed them of the arrival of Neville, Molly and Halbarad; of the destruction of the remnant Corsair fleet at the Battle of Harondor, and of their most recent victory against the second wave of Sauron's attack against 'Darth Dumbledore'.

"Mighty battles, both, and with barely a casualty within our ranks, though I lost my dear friend, Minacil. Halbarad Dúnedain sustained injury also, yet he shall survive."

Aragorn shot to his feet.

"Halbarad is wounded?"

"Alas, he is! Ironically, only after battle was done and we thought ourselves safe. The arrogance of victors! Were it not for arts of Lady Molly, he would have perished. Yet fear not, lord, for he lives, though he cannot, at present, talk."

"And the boy? Neville Longbottom? Where is he? We have yet to see either him or his Guardian."

"Both Neville and his Guardian accompany the Marble Army to Minas Tirith. They left but thirty minutes ago with instructions to follow the River north."

It was not exactly what Aragorn wanted to hear.

"That is ill news!" he cried, striding along the length of the tent.

"My lord?"

The Heir of Isildur looked out through the open tent flap toward the Anduin, as though, with a little luck, he might yet be able to call the visiting Istari back. Finally he sighed, and turned to the company.

"I fear I have erred, friends, and that the time may now be too late to remedy it. Calamity may find us all if the young one reaches Minas Tirith ere we do – and that he shall, for his broom is swifter than any ship over water. My foolishness may have doomed us all!"

"Of what foolishness do you speak?" asked Legolas in concern as the ranger fell into a chair and cradled his head tiredly in his hands. "What error could possibly doom us all?"

Silver-grey eyes lifted to gaze at the elf.

"Do you recall when Gandalf and I spoke with the Ents at Isengard?"

"That you spoke with their leader, yes; what you spoke of, nay."

"What we spoke of with Treebeard is not as important as what Gandalf revealed to me when Théoden left us."

And so Aragorn finally revealed to his companions the presence of Augusta Longbottom in Middle-earth, and of the possible danger her meeting with Neville ere the war ended may herald. They listened at first in amazement, then concern as he told of Gandalf's visions in the Mirror of Galadriel.

"This at least explains more clearly why you despatched Neville to the southern realms of Gondor," commented Legolas. "'Tis a pity he was not aware of the real reason behind it, for we might have avoided this otherwise. The child is not without reason, he would have understood the sense of it, I am certain. Why did you keep this knowledge from him, Aragorn?"

It was neither a criticism nor rebuke on the elf's part, Aragorn knew this; merely an honest observation. But it needled him nonetheless because the common sense behind it was inarguable.

"Gandalf bade me not to reveal what I knew for fear it would be the very catalyst to send him to Minas Tirith, and set events in motion that were better avoided."

The fair elf looked troubled. "Mithrandir is wise, mellon nin, yet not infallible. The Mirror of Galadriel does not always reveal absolutes; we cannot be certain that what he saw shall indeed come to pass."

"But dare we take that chance, Legolas? What if that is the one thing Gandalf saw which does indeed come to pass? Where might that leave us? As it is, Galadriel's Mirror was not the only reason to despatch Neville south. His encounter with the Palantír also made it necessary; there was no other available to secure victory while my business lay elsewhere," the ranger pointed out.

"Secure victory he did," said Elphir. "He, Molly and Halbarad together - and twice in five days! The threat to our City has now been utterly crushed, and will remain so if we can but secure a final victory over Sauron."

"Twice in five days, you say?" grunted Gimli. "How was this achieved?"

There followed an abridged version of the sea-battle at Harondor and the more recent Battle on the Plain. Despite his worry over Neville's conspicuous absence, even Aragorn could not fail to be impressed by the boy's ability to adapt in a tight spot.

"Turning slaves into a ready-made army? Dead Rohirric twins, headless soldiers and a stone regiment, you say?" he muttered.

"The Marble Army, if you please," smiled Elphir. "Ai, Aragorn, 'twas a sight to behold, I tell you! Never has an assault been thwarted so swiftly and with such finality. Alas that it terrified the wounded so deeply that Halbarad sustained injury because of it."

"Yet he will live, and for that I am grateful. I shall visit him in but a moment, though I would be grateful if your men would return him to Dol Amroth to recuperate."

Elphir agreed instantly. "Our sweet sea air will soon nurse him back to full health, and my sister will no doubt delight in having a patient to mother, at least until my beloved bears our child. May I ask what your plans are now? Hope you to intercept Neville in some other fashion? He is but less than an hour from our camp, so surely something might be possible?"

The rumpled ranger shook his dark head. "Not unless I learn to sprout wings within the next hour."

"Stranger things have been known to happen," remarked Gimli, pouring himself another ale. "You did raise the Dead, after all."

This was not strictly true, but everyone appreciated the attempt at levity. It might be one of the last they would ever know.

Aragorn began to pace the tent, deep in thought. If only he had arrived an hour earlier! Gandalf or nay, a mere hour would have given him the chance to converse with Neville, explain things to him. Legolas was right: the boy would have seen the wisdom of this, he was certain of that now, and rather ashamed that he had allowed his better judgement of the youth to be overridden so easily.

Well, there was nothing else to be done except raise anchor earlier than intended and sail with the wind as fast as they could. Perhaps they would manage to intercept Neville and Molly yet, with a little good fortune.

Turning to the others he made his thoughts known, requesting of Elphir that he ready half his forces to join them, if the prince was willing.

"We are at your service, Dúnadan. With so many more who know Neville by sight, perhaps we may recover him more quickly ere he finds his daernaneth, whether that be before or after he arrives at the White City."

And so the princes left to give new orders to their captains, and half their army was despatched back to Dol Amroth, whilst the rest headed for the Anduin. The Haradrim wains came in very useful here, for the enemy had brought a score of small boats that held twenty man each, which they had intended to use to board Neville's 'star' ships once the mûmakil-mounted archers had burned their sails away. After a bitter-sweet reunion with his wounded cousin, during which Halbarad fruitlessly attempted to convey his regret at letting Neville slip from his grasp (Aragorn refused to allow him to berate himself, stating it was beyond his control), Aragorn raced through the now pouring rain to the river's edge, returned with Legolas and Gimli to their newly acquired naval fleet, and soon the Hope of the West was sailing toward the city he hoped one day to call his own.

Depending on the accuracy of Galadriel's mirror …

**XXX**

_Minas Tirith_

_Third Age, Just after Midnight, 15th March 3019_

Neville and Molly had to stop well before the city in order to inspect and repair any damage the Marble Army had incurred during their frantic race up from Southern Ithilien (there was little to none, though, given that they were still Impervious to all but an Oliphaunt). Job done they returned their attention to the desperate scene ahead.

Yelling and screaming, roaring and shouting, blasting, crashing and booming thundered through the night from the direction of the beleaguered Minas Tirith, and it was all Neville could do not to race ahead and get stuck in when he saw the odds stacked against Boromir's homeland. The Pelennor was crawling with men, orcs, oliphaunts, and strange wooden structures all intent on flattening his dead friend's pretty city, and it filled the teenager with fury on Gondor's behalf. But there was no use barging ahead recklessly, or hexing everything in sight; he had to take a figurative step back for a moment to contemplate what the best course of action would be.

How he wished Aragorn was here! He would know what to do. Neville only hoped he could be of enough help to hold off the worst of the assault until the ranger arrived.

If he was still alive.

Shaking the thought off, he took a calming breath and studied the battlefield from quarter of a mile away, on the (relative) safety of his hovering Cleansweep. It was to their very good fortune that none of the Nazgûl swooping about had spotted them yet, but, thankfully, they were too busy dive-bombing the highest tiers of the city. His gaze was drawn once more to the ivory statues behind them.

Hmm. What they needed was a strategy to make the best use of their limited resources.

He tapped his chin thoughtfully. Despite having lost a mere handful of statues to rampaging elephants during the Battle of the Plain, there were still only two hundred and fifty ivory warriors versus a potential one hundred thousand Mordorians, including their allies. Not in Neville's wildest fantasies would his marble mates ever come out trumps against those odds.

Unless they had more …

"Minas Tirith looks a good deal bigger than Dol Amroth, wouldn't you say?" he asked of Molly, eyeing the towering spire on the pinnacle as several Ring-wraiths flew past it to somewhere beyond. "I mean, it's _huge_."

"Yes," agreed the witch, raising her brows speculatively. "At least twice as big, if not more. You know, it rather reminds me of a wedding cake, with all those tiers." She winced as a flaming rock hurtled toward one of the levels. "And it looks rather like someone's keen to light its candles. We'd better head off and help them, don't you think?"

"Not yet. There're only two of us and we're going to need some kind strategy to do as much damage to the enemy ranks as possible."

Especially since throwing his plants into the mix was out of the question; not with so many allies in danger of becoming equally susceptible to their deadly charms. He felt Molly's quizzical brown gaze settle on him, so he turned to face her.

"You do know, dear, that we do have over two hundred helpers waiting to do some damage?" she said, inclining her head at the scary ivory squadron.

"Yeah. But what if we could swell their ranks?"

She threw him a puzzled glance, peered suddenly at the raging city, then smiled. "Of course! Twice the size, twice the number of statues. Well, I'll take care of that if you want to lead this lot in from here. In fact -" she shot high into the air and zoomed ahead before returning ten minutes later "- the city itself is slowly being surrounded by at least two enemy armies – orcs and more of those ghastly southerners, by the looks of it – and there are thousands more orcs heading its way from a breach in the perimeter further up. If you take our friends here near the top of the field, they might be able to delay the new arrivals from reinforcing the main attackers. Meanwhile, I'll gather our new marble friends and lead them out of the city itself – that ought to put the frighteners in those idiots banging at the gates!"

It wasn't much of a plan considering the odds stacked against them, but it was the best they had. Besides, Gandalf was in Minas Tirith somewhere, wasn't he? He was the most powerful Maia in Middle-earth, so that was definitely something else in their favour.

"Sounds good. But you'll have to be careful where you land, Molly, 'cos our Nazgûl friends are on the loose."

"I know. I saw them heading for the top of the city, so I'll aim for the middle. But you'll be on your own for a while, dear, because I can't have the new army rushing through the front gates, or any idiot might be able to sneak in past them."

Good point. He only hoped she wasn't planning to make the newest statues chuck themselves off the city walls though; spectacular as the sight would be, the resulting damage to enemy forces would not be great enough to prevent them from overthrowing the city.

"I've got every faith in you, Molly. I'll do what I can until you reappear. And if you see Gandalf while you're there, tell him I said 'hi', would you?"

They shared a nervous laugh before Molly flew off, leaving Neville to descend and order his stony militia to make for the Host of Mordor, who were already flowing through the breach in the northern wall of the Rammas Echor.

"I order you," he began, feeling ever so slightly like a pompous arse, "to follow me into the middle of the Pelennor and start hacking at anything ugly enough to make me look gorgeous."

They stared at him blankly. He sighed, wishing Molly was here. She was much better at this sort of thing.

"Oh, all right. I order you to follow me into the middle of the Pelennor and slaughter any orcs, uruk-hai, trolls, and anyone or anything else that even squints at Minas Tirith suspiciously, let alone tries to overrun it. Death to all the enemies of Gondor! But, for the love of Merlin, avoid the bloody elephants, er _oliphaunts_, whenever you can – unless you can get a sneaky hack or ten at their back legs without being pummelled into dust! And whatever you do, make sure you don't hurt any of our allies, okay?"

Over two hundred stone necks cricked in acknowledgement, and the remaining two dozen flying statues circled him lazily. Pleased by his success, he ascended on his broom once more and off they went.

It was a sight that none within the city or upon the Pelennor would ever forget: Neville led the vanguard of flying statutes whilst the land-based battalion of deadly, stampeding ivory figures tanked their way past the landings to the south of the fields, past a huge smoking pile of carcasses which had been carted away from the main field of battle, and up north until they reached the central plain, where they headed due west, forming a barrier between the advancing Host of Mordor and the bewildered Haradrim and Southron forces.

"Charge!" cried Neville from above, pointing his wand at the terrified creatures below.

And charge they did ...

**XXX**

Having passed the Stonewain Valley that morning with no sign of the crebain, Dumbledore was beginning to fear that they would arrive too late to locate them amidst the carnage that may already be under way on the Pelennor Fields. The sky had been growing steadily darker the further south they flew – even through the daylight hours – and Radagast theorised it must be some device of Sauron's making to ease the passing of his minions. If this was the case and the assault of the city was already under way, Neville might very well be there already. If the remaining crebain could not be located, and soon …

He ground his teeth in frustration. Saruman's spies were proving extremely elusive, despite the advantage the Great Eagles had over them in speed. Whenever it seemed like they spotted them, the crebain would split up, soaring over the White Mountains, swooping down into valleys, hiding in crevices too small for human or Eagle eye to spot them, and generally leading the former headmaster and his friends on a merry chase. As a result, Dumbledore, Fred and Radagast wasted hours chasing false trails, and had only dared stop twice for a short rest, lest it give their quarry an even greater lead.

Actually, had he had his way, Dumbledore wouldn't have stopped at all – he would have been perfectly content to keep on chasing them. He might not be as young as he used to be, but since his rebirth, he was filled with the energy of a much younger man - a very pleasant surprise, to be truthful. But the Great Eagles, as mighty as they were, needed to rest and hunt in order to renew their strength, despite the fact that he had used a Featherweight charm to make their burden on the gracious animals that much lighter. And they were correct of course. Even reborn, reinvigorated wizards had to rest; and so they dutifully snatched a very few hours sleep the day after they had left Helm's Deep, and also that very morning, before setting out again on their desperate mission.

The Eagle who had been kind enough to volunteer his services as passenger transport for Dumbledore, Gwaihir, was swifter than any Nimbus or Firebolt his old world could ever have crafted; still – thanks to the deviousness of their feathered foes – Radagast and the Great Eagles had only managed to capture and destroy four of the fleeing crebain, leaving but thirteen to track.

Not a lucky number in anyone's book, unless it was Gilderoy Lockhart's (who claimed, within the pages of one of his many 'autobiographies', that it had taken him precisely that amount of seconds to rid the world of Count Vasily the Vicious, the feared Vladivostok Vampire**, **simply by burning him to death with a dazzling smile).

"Shouldn't be much longer," shouted Fred atop Meneldor. "I can already see an orange glow on the horizon."

"No doubt it is fire that you spy, son of Men," said Gwaihir. "I fear the White City may already be ablaze, which means the Enemy is already there."

Which meant Neville probably was too. And the crebain were still on the loose …

"We might want to get a move on, then. It'll be almost impossible to spot the crebain in the mêlée, but at least the darkness should make Neville's coloured bursts of magic easily identifiable. We only have to keep our eyes peeled for that; once we've located him, it'll just be a matter of grabbing him and Disapparating him as far away as possible."

Fred's idea was a very good one, but for one tiny little problem.

"If we can spot his magic so easily, then so can the crebain," Dumbledore pointed out.

Which meant that what it might boil down to, in the end, was a race between the crebain and the Great Eagles. As they crested towards Mount Mindolluin, and the booming, thunderous roars of battle began to slowly filter their way; as Radagast screeched in anticipation and shot ahead, using magic to lend him greater speed, and Dumbledore and Fred both unsheathed their wands in anticipation of action, the former headmaster found himself wondering one thing; who would emerge as the victors?

******XXX**

Augusta Longbottom was incensed.

_Incensed_!

How _dare_ those ghastly, malodorous, shocking excuses for dragons parade her across the city ramparts as if she was a prize worm! How _dare_ those offensive noseghouls swoop all over the city spreading fear and disease (they probably hadn't washed those stinking cloaks in centuries!) over the poor people of Minas Tirith, who were crying out in shock as their mighty protectress was carried away to face some dreadful fate in the dungeons of Barad-dûr.

"Soon the City will fall, and thou shalt wish thou hadst fallen with it, for it would be the kindlier fate, Green Witch!" hissed the Ring-wraith, and Augusta hated it for the smugness in its tone. And for allowing its horrible dragon to shred her coat!

Desperately she looked about, hoping to find some opportunity that would allow her to escape her current dilemma, but it was not looking good. The blasted Fell Beasts had taken another turn about the city, showing off their prize, no doubt, and all she could see were the tiny tops of roofs and battlements below. With a terrible, victorious screech, half her hideous escort bade her farewell and soared back to the heights of the city, no doubt to torment the poor soldiers up there. Her own escort, which now numbered but two, flew her over the first circle of Minas Tirith, back and forth, back and forth, so that all the soldiers and captains blocking the gate from assault got a perfectly splendid view of her.

As did Gandalf.

His face was a picture of complete horror, an expression mirrored on the face of Archie, who stood by his side.

"Aunt Augusta! You must break free! Do not allow it to take you from the City!" he cried aloud in dismay.

Well of course she mustn't allow it to take her from the deuced city. So she'd just hex the blasted beast grasping her coat and plummet to certain death on the flagstones below then, would she? Maybe take a few dozen knights and their whinnying horses with her? And before she had even given Neville an earful, into the bargain? What an utterly spiffing idea.

Just as the Nazgûl turned about to take one final swoop over the city, something extraordinary happened. All of a sudden, the city seemed to be swallowed up by the most incredible noise. Creaking, groaning, smashing … From every barracks and every courtyard, from every splendid building and mighty tower – even from the Hall of Kings all the way up on the seventh circle, a terrific _crash, thump, shudder, thud _issued forth. Soldiers actually screamed, and horses went wild with fright as – to their amazement – hundreds of statues of every description came marching down every level of the city, smashing their way through the gates that barred entry between levels and converging on the second level. Someone soaring above shouted several spells – a female voice Augusta knew almost as well as her own – and the statues floated en masse into the air, over the main city wall, and gently landed right in front of it.

Molly Weasley! By Merlin's hairy big beard! That was Molly Weasley!

Which meant that Neville must be somewhere nearby.

Goodness gracious! Augusta _definitely_ had to get back into the city now! There was no question about it. But how?

There was no time to think about possibilities, for something else was happening then.

"KINGS AND STEWARDS, PRINCES OF GONDOR - AND ALL YOU OTHER LOVELY GONDORIAN STATUES, OF COURSE - YOUR COUNTRY NEEDS YOU!" shouted Molly Weasley (in a fine rage, too. Augusta almost approved. Almost). The Weasley matriarch then swept past an absolutely astounded Augusta on a Cleansweep (a _Cleansweep_, damn it!), blissfully unaware that Neville's grandmother was mere feet away, and in rather dire need of assistance. "SO I ORDER YOU TO DEFEND HER. DEFEND MINAS TIRITH!" she continued, now hovering out of sight on the other side of the wall. "STOP HER ENEMIES AT ALL COSTS! KILL THOSE ROTTEN SODS HEADING THIS WAY. IN FACT, KILL ANYONE WHO'S THROWING ANYTHING MORE DANGEROUS THAN A FOND KISS THIS WAY. AND DON'T BE SHY ABOUT IT! NOW GO!"

The Nazgûl gripping Augusta emitted a piercing shriek of rage as it stopped prancing through the air and - to Augusta's complete and utter dismay - took flight after Molly. Gandalf, Glorfindel and hundreds of anxious eyes watched as it carried her over the city wall and out onto the Pelennor beyond, which was practically shuddering underneath the mass of hundreds of newly stampeding marble feet.

Augusta was deeply worried by this turn of events. She knew how imperative it was to get back into the city proper, and neither did she feel so uncharitably towards the Weasley wife that she wanted her to share whatever fate Sauron had in store for her should the Ring-wraith manage to snare them both and cart them off together.

"Let me go this instant, you leathery oaf!" she shouted at the stinking belly above as it carried her further up the Pelennor. Naturally, it ignored her, determined to catch this new, equally dangerous foe. Augusta huffed in annoyance. How many women did the stupid thing think it could carry at any one time? What if it _could_ carry two, her in one set of claws and Molly in the other? If it could catch her at all, that was. Molly's Cleansweep was the fastest broom in the world.

In this Age of it, at least.

Perhaps Augusta ought to look on the bright side, though? If the unthinkable happened, and the stupid creature _did_ somehow manage to snare poor Molly, at least Augusta could console herself with giving the unfortunate woman a very loud piece of her mind before Sauron got the chance to throw his two Knuts-worth in.

It didn't look likely that she would get the chance after all, for just then, the Green Witch saw something that made her gape. An enormous flying swan.

An enormous flying _stone_ swan.

Where in the name of Gryffindor had that come from? She hadn't seen any of _them_ springing from the city walls!

The Fell Beast above her swerved violently as the swan headed its way, barely avoiding a collision.

"Will you watch where you're going, you unbelievable idiot!" she cried at the Ring-wraith above. "Where the blazes did you learn to steer?"

Or not steer, as the case may be.

Men! Dead or alive (or both at the same time) they were, without question, absolutely _the_ worst drivers. Give them a car and they'd crash it. Give them a broomstick and they'd shatter it. Give them a horse and they'd ride it off a cliff-top (unless they were Rohirrim, in which case they'd manfully catch it by the tail as it fell and haul it back up the cliff on their strappingly broad backs). Give them a Fell Beast and they'd never wash it! Give them a …

Whatever else the opposite sex would or would not do, she never found out, for at that moment the persistent stone swan turned about and sped towards her ugly bald reptile, and no amount of soaring, swooping or diving could shake it off. Within a minute, marble webbed feet had the fell beast by the neck and clung on doggedly, impervious to the clanging metallic slashes of the Ring-wraith's sword. The fell beast gurgled horribly, and in a desperate attempt to dislodge its attacker, flexed its feet to claw it off.

Augusta, suddenly freed beyond hope, dropped like a stone fifty feet toward the ground below.

Fortunately for her, her fall was broken within metres by a handy canopy.

Unfortunately for her, aforementioned canopy covered the tower of a rampaging oliphaunt …

The fabric ripped under the impact of her weight, and she landed on a wooden platform at the feet of the most astonished elephant-handler in Arda.

"Oh, I do beg your pardon," she said politely. He shook his head twice, grinned as though he couldn't quite believe his luck, and rose from his perch by the beast's neck, hand readying to draw his blade. "Stupefy!" she cried, relieved to see him topple off the side of his enormous pet.

Predictably, he was not the only Haradrim on the tower. Even as Augusta pulled herself shakily to her feet, trying desperately to keep her balance on the wildly swaying platform, several more men rushed her way. It was all she could do to disarm them without succumbing to motion-sickness (but she was a Longbottom, and Longbottoms were _never_ sick. Everyone knew that). With three blade-wielding baddies advancing on her, and four more taking aim with bows, she tried to Disapparate.

Without success.

She tried again, but could simply not find purchase on the platform long enough to twist into the spell.

Dash it all to blazes!

With no option left, she had to take a rather shaky stand and do her best. Luckily, her best was rather spectacular, and soon the bows were shooting nothing more dangerous her way than a shower of petals, and all six furious Haradrim had been blasted from the elephant.

Wait a minute. Six? Hadn't there been …

"Aarrgh!" she cried as a huge chap in gold-and scarlet grabbed her around the waist and lifted her high into the air. Without missing a beat, she did a Neville and viciously poked her wand over her shoulder, straight into the unconscionable granny-grabber's eye. Reflexively he dropped her; she yanked her wand back (hard) as she fell onto the platform (again). Her attacker's scream could have wakened the dead; he stumbled about clutching his bleeding organ until he stumbled over one of the ropes securing the tower to his pet and tumbled off, only to be crushed to death by its back leg moments later**.**

Which jolly well served him right!

But the lack of potential handlers left Augusta with a problem: she was unable to Disapparate back into the city because she was on an unstable platform, in a dangerously swaying tower, on top of a newly-rogue elephant!

Oh, no. What if Neville saw her, here of all places, in the midst of battle ...

Heavens! Whatever was she to do?

There was only one option left.

Knowing she absolutely had to return to the city without delay, the elderly witch turned around, stumbled her way to the beast's neck, and somehow managed to straddle the perch there. Grabbing the thick ropes that passed as reins, she took a deep breath.

Augusta Longbottom was Middle-earth's newest witch-cum-elephant-handler!

******XXX**

Meanwhile, Neville - over a mile away up the northern end of the Pelennor - was having the time of his life, hexing, jinxing and blasting away liked a maniac. He had given up on the Cleansweep (being not as adept in the air with it as Molly) and, after shoving it back into his knapsack, was finding it significantly easier (and much more fun, really) leading his ivory friends towards the astonished Host of Mordor.

Already he had hit one of the orcish leaders with a Babbling Curse, and within minutes the unfortunate thing had been beheaded by its own kind for talking utter nonsense (and thus being completely unable to direct its surging troops).

Not that said troops were surging any more – at least not in the direction of the city. As soon as the Marble Army went storming past their wizardly leader (who sadly lacked their stamina), the orcs emitted a chorus of girly shrieks and fled back up the plain in the direction of the ruined Rammas Echor. It did them little good; the Marble Army went storming after them, swiping at them with their stone swords or crushing them underfoot. Even the ivory songstress was at it again, swinging her enormous harp about in wide circles to hit as many foes as possible, and each time she did, almost a dozen hulking uruk-hai went flying in every direction.

Confusion reined amidst the Host of Mordor, for though they vastly outnumbered the scary statues, they were far more perishable than these unnatural stone enemies. Every orcish retaliation only made it abundantly clear to all that arrows simply bounced off these new foes, fire left them cold, swords had no effect upon them (unless it was to enrage them into further acts of staggering violence), and even the beasts pulling more trebuchets towards the city were driven wild with fear by them, so that many of the animals fled from them on sight, upturning their enormous cargos in their haste to avoid the thundering marble maniacs.

"Confringo!" yelled Neville time and again as he raced across the field on foot, destroying whatever machines his gleaming allies missed. Wood exploded everywhere, long vicious shards of it piercing enemies by the dozen. Several even shot towards Neville himself, but they bounced miraculously away without leaving so much as a scratch, thanks to the Light of Varda.

The teenager grinned smugly at his enemies when they noticed this. Stubborn enough to give slaying him another go, an enormous uruk in heavy black mail rushed his way, wielding the crudest, wickedest blade yet.

"Yore goin' ta be ma supper this night, little Wizard boy!" he snarled, licking his lips in anticipation amidst a chorus of encouraging cheers from his smelly friends. Neville didn't move. Didn't even raise his sword to defend himself; he simply waited as the creature bolted his way, weapon raised, and struck out at him with force of a hammer blow.

Molly was right. It felt like a gentle tickle, and he chortled madly. His laughter seemed to disturb the uruk more than the fruitless attempt to slay him, because he and his terrified mates turned and bolted, hotly pursued by a trio of stony Dol Amrothian minstrels, and a very tall statue of Ecthelion the first.

A surge of incredible euphoria swept through the teenager as he stood there, marvelling at their inability to harm him. So this was what it felt like to bear the Light of Varda? To be immune to anything the enemy threw at him? He was invincible! Unstoppable! The Nightmare with the Necklace!

Hmm. It might be a bit more helpful to everyone else, though, if he unleashed it on Sauron's simpering servants, instead of crowing over how infallible it was making him personally …

Feeling rather ashamed of his moment of selfishness, and for not thinking of the obvious much, much sooner, Neville raced after the orcish army who were desperately trying to fight off his stony friends, attempting as he ran to release the pendant from beneath the folds of his top. But he had forgotten Molly's Permanent Sticking charm.

Hurriedly, he shoved his Lórien cloak over his shoulders, unbuttoned his cardigan, and ripped at the material of his t-shirt to enable Varda's gift to do its work. His favourite t-shirt, no less. Oh, well.

The top of his t-shirt parted, torn flaps flopping one to each side, and immediately the pendant sticking to his chest lit up like a brilliant star, illuminating the Pelennor with a dazzling light. Orcs screamed in agony, dashing every which way, covering their aching eyes. Many fell foul of the stampeding creatures hauling trebuchets, while others ran straight into the path of the multitudinous, merciless marble warriors. But the light was also blinding Neville, and were it not for the fact that Varda's necklace protected him from all harm, he would have been trampled beneath a company of terrified orcs when he tripped over his own feet ten seconds later. Hauling himself up, he fumbled about his chest until he had successfully buttoned his cardigan, and the Light of Varda dimmed immediately.

Relief flooded him as he steadied himself and pulled the folds of his Lórien cloak back together. Perhaps that particular trick should only be attempted for short periods?

Relief turned suddenly to tension when a series of ghastly shrieks announced the arrival of something which turned his blood cold.

_Nazgûl!_

Quick as a flash he looked to the heavens and spotted three of them heading his way.

"Expecto Patronum!" he cried, warding one off with his faithful labrador Patronus. The other two veered left and right, turned about, and dove his way. At that point, Molly appeared, whizzing across the battlefield on her Cleansweep.

"Expecto Patronum!" she cried in kind, and the silvery lioness shot from her wand to take care of the others. But more flying Ring-wraiths were hot on her heels - at least another three (one of whom was looking quite ridiculous in a frilly pink nightdress). A Fell Beast clawed her knapsack with such force that Molly wobbled dangerously and tilted sideways on her broomstick. For one horrible moment, Neville thought she might tumble to the ground, and so he sent another Patronus her way. The Ring-wraiths promptly fled, Molly righted herself, and all that tumbled to the ground were a few items that had been shaken free from her torn knapsack.

"I've got them!" he cried, Summoning various articles and stuffing them quickly in his own bag. It wouldn't do to let the enemy get their hands on magical objects that could be used against their original owners. Securing his knapsack once more, he acknowledged her grateful wave with one of his own, and she shot a quick Reparo at her knapsack before whizzing south down the Pelennor, shooting fire at the Nazgûl's retreating backs.

And so the battle continued. The Marble Army of Dol Amroth advancing further into the orcish ranks, massacring everything in their way; Molly seemed to be everywhere at once, blasting in the north, the west, then heading back south as she fought to keep the annoyingly persistent Nazgûl from herself and her charge; Neville hexed and cursed his way through Haradrim and Southrons in an attempt to destroy the huge machines chucking fiery balls iinto the city. Twice he was bowled over by enormous, slavering wolves, and each time they ran from him screaming after he aimed Stinging hexes straight into their gaping jaws.

The Pelennor was a riot of fire and screaming, clashing, crashing and whizzing of arrows. At one point, Neville, automatically stopped to redirect a hail of them heading his way, only to realise he had sent them soaring back into the city from where they originated. Were it not for the quick actions of his flying statues, who swooped in to bear the brunt of the damage, the teenager might very well have slaughtered dozens of the very people he was trying to protect.

"Sorry!" he yelled, feeling like a complete twat. Only the fact that his spell was shot in error saved him from the wrath of a dozen stony kings of Minas Tirith. That and the Light of Varda, of course. From then on, he tried to be a bit more cautious about who, and what, he was aiming for. But it was so difficult; there were simply too many snarling, spitting, screaming foes challenging him, so many arrows, swords, and flaming rocks heading his way – and those bloody Nazgûl seemed absolutely _determined_ to track him wherever he went. Time after time he sent a Patronus their way, and they did indeed flee. But they always, inevitably, returned, and he didn't always have the time to deal with both them and whichever sortie of Southrons, or pack of wargs, was currently trying to disembowel him. Were it not for the flying statues, following him wherever he went (probably in case he tried to off an ally again), they might very well have succeeded in capturing him.

All in all, things seemed to be going well. Almost an hour and a half after their arrival into the battle and Molly had despatched a second Marble Army to battle the Southron forces charging the main city wall; Neville had managed to send a healthy amount of the Host of Mordor fleeing back up the Pelennor with the original Marble Army hot on their heels _and_ he had flattened over half a dozen of the trebuchets nearest Minas Tirith, allowing Gondorian troops to extinguish many of the fires raging through the city, and their archers to pick off those Haradrim trying to sneak around the base of the mountain in an attempt to encircle the city again.

Things were looking good.

Too good.

Naturally, it couldn't last. Five hundred yards to the west of the city, Neville was shooting spells left, right and centre, attempting to battle a company of Southrons determined to capture him, when the air above filled with a terrible screeching, and the largest of all the fell beasts flew low across the Pelennor, deliberately charging towards the main gates of Minas Tirith. A terrible chill filled the air, and its rider shrieked aloud, a sound so piercing and dreadful that everyone covered their ears. But that was not the worst of it. In his wake came great companies of gold-and-scarlet clad men leading enormous elephants who pulled more siege towers behind them. Neville's flying escort and a large portion of Molly's marble militia abandoned their skirmishes and headed their way, but they were not quick enough to head them off, and many of the land-based statues were trampled by the mighty feet of the beasts, or crushed beneath the wheels of the siege towers they pulled.

Dismayed, Neville began blasting his way through the enemy crowds, firing Patronuses at what he thought were more Nazgûl screeching above him.

Why wouldn't they just sod off and leave him alone, for Merlin's sake? Every time he shot off a spell, they zoomed in on the coloured magic and tried to pick him off. It was annoying beyond belief. Couldn't they see he was trying to fight a war?

Rotten sods.

However, this time, his Patronuses were proving ineffectual, and, frustrated, he looked to the skies.

Well, that explained it. It wasn't Nazgûl pestering him this time after all, but a tiny cloud of … were they crows? Seriously? Had the enemy sent a flock of ruddy birds to finish the job they couldn't?

They spotted him and headed his way, and he almost chuckled at the stupidity of his enemy's tactics. Honestly, what did they expect a bunch of ruddy birds to do? Befoul him to death?

With a roll of his eyes, he took aim; but before he could fire, the first four stretched out their talons, dropped something onto the earth mere yards away, and flew off. Confused, he watched as the rest parted in two halves, each veering in opposite directions, so that it seemed they were heading off, too.

Well that was bizarre.

He looked down at the ground where they had dropped ... whatever they had dropped, and spotted something incredible.

Seeds. The birds had dropped seeds. How pretty!

They sank quickly into the ground, and for a moment he was disappointed until they started to grow. Within seconds tiny shoots were pushing their way through the mangled grass. He stared, awestruck, as they grew taller, delicate, fern-like scarlet fronds tipped with gold …

Gryffindor colours!

How amazing. How wonderful! How he wanted them ...

Suddenly the battle raging around him faded into nothing. Death cries, colossal crashes and ear-splitting shrieks paled in comparison to the beauty of the plant ahead. It seemed to call out to him, drawing him towards it, almost as if it were a part of him desperate for a longed-for reunion.

So warm. So welcoming. So loving. Like the plant version of a Molly Weasley hug ...

He didn't even notice when a further shower of the seedlings rained upon him from above, slipping beneath his Lórien cloak, into his hair, nestling in his hood. All he knew was that he had to reach the beautiful Gryffindor-plant, had to touch it, inhale its scent. It was magical, that much was clear. Powerful, too. Who knew what properties it might contain? Who knew what secrets it might yield – perhaps even a cure for his parents' vegetative condition! He had to have it, Nothing else mattered.

_Nothing._

In a daze he stumbled forward, shouting in fury when someone dared tread upon it on their way to attack the city. He raised his wand to fire at them, but no answering spell issued forth. So great was the allure of the now rapidly sprouting plants that he thought nothing of this, opting instead to lower his head and barrel into the offending Southron, who gave a great _oof_ and went sprawling backwards. Spinning around, Neville rushed back to inspect the damage to this mighty gift. To touch it, to caress it. He couldn't wait!

Just as he reached out with eager fingers, was but a hair's breadth from his treasure, a great screech sounded above. Automatically he raised his wand ...

Too late. The creature was already upon him! And it was another ruddy bird, for Merlin's sake! Not just any ruddy bird, though - a Peregrine falcon with an odd gleam in its eye - a knowing gleam - and it was determined to keep him away from his heart's desire. Furthermore, the pesky, pecking bird was apparently the leader of a larger group of birds, kestrels, hawks, and many more - and while their frantic master was busy attacking Neville, _they_ were busy attacking his newly-blossomed plant!

Rage consumed him.

"Gerroff! Sod _off_ you stupid bird!" he cried angrily, incurring scrapes and cuts aplenty whilst trying to swat this unexpected enemy from himself. The falcon's equally annoying mates were busy pooing all over Neville's lovely ferns –_ bird_ poo! There was nothing more caustic to a newly flowering plant. They would kill it!

"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing!" he screamed at them as, one after, another they dropped their milky-coloured muck all over his parents' potential cure. Within moments, more stalks began to shoot up, ones which wrapped themselves around his pretty ferns, choking them. These new plants blossomed into orange-and-green spiralled flowers which dipped their heads down over Neville's red-and-gold Gryffindor-esque plant and consumed them before his very eyes.

Neville was absolutely, and uncharacteristically fizzing with outrage. Taking aim with his wand, he tried to shoot a spell in the birds' direction, and only then did he begin to register that it was not responding. So he tried again.

No success.

A dreadful feeling gripped him then, one far worse than seeing the destruction of some stupid plant.

Oh, no. Oh no, _oh no_, OH NO!

Desperately, he tried again and again to get a response - _any_ kind of response - from his wand, but nothing happened. His magic, it seemed, had just ... disappeared. He knew it had, because he couldn't _feel_ it anymore. He felt empty. Devoid. Vacant.

An image flashed before him then, the one from Galadriel's mirror all those weeks ago, of a slender red plant with fronds tipped with gold. Belatedly he also recalled a snippet of Galadriel's warning from his dream prior to the Battle of Helm's Deep:

_"Beware of the crimson that flowers the field"_

Neville sank to his knees, feeling like a failure. He had not paid attention, as he should have. Halbarad was right. He shouldn't have come here. He was a fool. He had ignored the warnings and now here he was, in the midst of the biggest battle in Arda without his magic. Feeling utterly bereft. Completely naked. Entirely vulnerable.

So this was what it felt like to be a Muggle.

Somewhere beside him came a cruel laugh, and he dragged his gaze from the ruins of his ruin to find a company of shoddily-mailed orcs atop wargs exchanging glances as they realised his wand was not functioning. Believing they were in for an easy meal, they charged …

******XXX**

It was at precisely this point when Augusta, who had been clinging for dear life to a rogue elephant that was running amok all over the Pelennor, came charging down towards the main wall of Minas Tirith.

"Left! No, _left,_ you silly creature! Minas Tirith's that way!" she cried, whacking it on the head with her wand as it stubbornly refused to follow its comrades (who had handlers that knew what they were about, unlike this daft old foreigner on his back).

For over an hour Augusta had been attempting to navigate the blasted elephant towards the city whilst blasting every Nazgûl that approached (a much more difficult task than before given the bumpy ride she was currently on), but there were so many men, orcs and machines dotting their route that it was an almost impossible task. Neither was it exactly the smoothest of rides either; if truth be known, the blasted elephant had unwittingly foiled several of her stubborn attempts to Disapparate. During the most recent one, the riderless mammoth inadvertently trod on a troll's corpse and nearly lost its footing as it slid for several yards on a gruesome pile of massive intestines; had Augusta not made a desperate lunge for one of the poles supporting the canopy, she might very well have toppled onto the battlefield below and been trampled into a crêpe before she knew what was going on!

So here she was, back on the stupid Haradrim handler's perch yet again, at the head of the even stupider elephant, valiantly fending off Ring-wraiths (where was that deuced Molly Weasley when you needed her?) whilst trying to navigate her transport with Stinging hexes (it refused to obey her frantic tugging on its reins), _and_ warding off volleys of arrows zooming her way from the city (from this distance, the silly chaps obviously thought she was the enemy). Aforementioned Stinging hexes were having no effect whatsoever on the elephant, though, for the creature's hide was so thick that she would have had vastly more success trying to carve her initials onto a tree trunk with a straw.

And so it was that, after yet another pointless attempt to hex her ride into obedience, it veered right, away from missile-lobbing citizens of Minas Tirith, taking her westwards, right into the path of a pack of snarling wargs headed for some poor fool kneeling in the middle of the Pelennor.

Kneeling in the middle of a battlefield, for pity's sake! What was the idiot all about? Didn't he know there was a war on? Or was he_ trying_ to commit suicide?

And why hadn't Gandalf thought to take care of _all_ those horrible wargs, anyway? For goodness' sakes! Was she going to have to do all his work for him?

Men!

Fed up with it all, she raised her wand to save the ungrateful wretch's life (and thus deprive the slavering wolves of their final meal) when a familiar chorus of screeches sounded from above.

Not again! She was_ sick to the back teeth_ of these horrid noseghouls!

Deciding that her elephant could have the pleasure of pancaking the wargs before they ever reached their dinner, Augusta aimed at the sky.

"_Expecto Patronum!"_ she shouted furiously. Her silvery dolphin shot out and chased the Nazgûl away. Satisfied, she waved her fist in their direction, yelling at them to 'please get lost, preferably forever'!

Turning back to the wargs, she heard a sickening _squelch_ as the elephant reached the first of them. Their target – the young man in a strange sort of grey-green cloak – had apparently decided life was worth living after all, and found the sense to pull himself to his feet. Even now he was pulling a long silver sword from a strange sort of makeshift sheath – no that was a tie, surely? A familiar sort of red and gold tie? And … why, was that sword sporting rubies?

Realisation hit her suddenly, and time seemed to stand still as the young man bent into a defensive crouch, holding the shiny, ruby-laden sword in both hands before him.

It was the Sword of Gryffindor …

Registering the sound of a stampeding elephant coming dangerously close, the young man inclined his head her way, his eyes widening as he caught sight of the angry beast, before travelling up, up, up, until finally ...

Neville's jaw dropped so far it nearly smashed straight through the Pelennor. His grip slackened on the Sword of Gryffindor as familiar brown eyes locked with her blue ones, and the fabled weapon dropped onto the trampled soil below.

"Gran?"

She couldn't hear him; the Nazgûl were shrieking once more, and – unbeknownst to her - there were at least four of them heading her way. But there was no mistaking the word formed by those familiar lips.

"_Gran?_" he mouthed again.

Why, oh why did he feel the need to pause and repeat the obvious when there was _a pack of starving wargs heading his way?_

"GRAN?" he bellowed, and this time the word was unmistakeable.

Oh for heaven's sake! Did he have to stand there gaping like an idiot? He'd be warg-fodder in moments.

And the Nazgûl were shrieking louder ...

"Use your wand, you silly boy!" she cried shrilly, shooting a Patronus into the air above her. Oh, why hadn't she_ insisted _Neville take his Apparition test? He already knew the basics, and he had to get out of here fast! "_Your wand! Disapparate! Use your wand to get out of here now!_"

But Neville could do no more than stare at her stupidly, incomprehensibly, and the longer he stared, the nearer the wolves got …

Transfixed by the sight of her grandson as she was – after all this time she had finally found him! - Augusta had no idea that it was not a mere warg that would harm him, not while he bore the Light of Varda. Nor was it their orcish riders who would steal him away to torment him, as Gandalf claimed. No, it was the remaining Nazgûl - who had fallen silent so as not to alert her to their presence ...

The witch, meanwhile, only had eyes for the charging wargs heading her grandson's way. Did they really think that after everything she had endured to find him, she'd let a pack of overgrown, flea-ridden mutts steal him from her!

Certainly not!

Huffing in extreme annoyance, she shot a powerful Blasting charm their way. It churned up the ground at their feet and sent them flying through the air, yelping in terror. Orcs tumbled from their mounts, screaming, before they smashed senseless onto the field below.

There! That took care of that lot. Now to get her scallywag of a grandson to safety …

But the combination of her distraction, and Neville's utter shock at finding his gran (his _gran!_) had allowed the Ring-wraiths to swoop down unexpectedly. Too late she heard him yelling out 'Gran!'. Too late she turned to find him trying to fend off a fell beast as it swooped and rose, swooped and rose over him, time and again. And too late was she to help him when the horribly familiar sensation of talons grabbed at her shoulders again. In fact, only a speedy Defodio aimed directly above her afforded her own instantaneous release. The Fell Beast rocked backwards with the force of the gouging spell as it carved a huge hole directly into its stomach, and its insides promptly fell outside. The now even smellier creature toppled to the ground, gurgling its last, trapping the Ring-wraith beneath it.

Terrified for her grandchild, Augusta spun back round hoping to find him there, fighting the Ring-wraith with the Sword of Gryffindor as she knew he must have done before. But the sword was lying abandoned on the raging field ...

And Neville was gone.

She searched the skies wildly, spotting him seconds later, watching helplessly as Neville was carried farther and farther away. Having more than learned its lesson this time, the Nazgûl didn't even bother flying over the city with its prize in tow; it had simply turned about and headed east. Molly, who had spent much of the last hour destroying stakes barring entry to the Pelennor from the north, then directing what was left of both marble armies to converge on the new threat to the city gates, suddenly screamed when she spotted what was happening. With a shout of rage, she shot forward on her Cleansweep only to come under a very unexpected attack of her own by what looked suspiciously like a flock of crows.

Augusta could only watch in horror as the Weasley matriarch slipped off her broom and plunged to the ground from an impossible height, while Neville grew smaller and smaller in the distance until he was gone from all sight.

And not even the sudden and noisy arrival of a flock of massive Eagles, who began viciously attacking the remaining Fell Beasts, could drown out her wrenching cry of pain.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Author's Note_: For PolishKlutz, and all the anonymous readers to whom I can't reply.

Hope you enjoyed, folks. 'Til next time, thanks for reading and _please_ do review. Not to sound ungrateful, but I used to get an average of fifteen per chapter (once I got 29 - 29 for a single chapter! Oh my stars!); now I'm lucky if I get ten. Don't get me wrong, I'm outrageously grateful to all my loyal reviewers, but it seems a bit of a shame there's rarely more feedback after all the hard work I put into each chapter. Maybe the fic's just not everyone's cup of tea any more, and that's fine. These thing's happen when a story doesn't always develop in the way a reader had imagined it would. But I've known right from the start where NQAM's going, even if it's had to struggle to get there at times, so I really would appreciate some more feedback.

In saying that, I know I have reviews to reply to for the previous chapter. I haven't forgotten you; I just thought you'd rather have the latest instalment sooner than a reply. I'll start replying to all reviews after work tomorrow.

Thanks folks!

Kara's Aunty ;)


	52. One thing after another

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. and Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

**Credit: **thainsbook dot net, harrypotterwikia dot com.

*****Please R & R. It really _is_ my only reward*****

**Chapter 52**

* * *

_Minas Tirith_

_Third Age, 15th March 3019_

When the crebain converged upon the enraged Weasley matriarch, her attempts to avoid them sent her over the lower level of Minas Tirith, so that when they deposited the remnant Longbottom's Bane upon her, and her magic horribly deserted the distressed witch, she dropped from the Cleansweep like a stone, woolly hat floating lazily in her wake. Without a witch or wizard to guide it, the Cleansweep dropped straight behind its stricken mistress.

Gandalf, Glorfindel, Imrahil, and hundreds of Swan Knights and Gondorians all over the city looked on in helpless dismay as the screaming lady plummeted to her doom, and all were helpless to assist her.

Worse still, there came an enormous cheer from outside the city as marble statues everywhere froze; Haradrim, Southrons, orcs, and trolls took advantage of this to start smashing as many of the bothersome behemoths to pieces as they could. Even the stone birds were falling from the sky, hurtling towards the city below …

It didn't last for more than a few seconds, however, much to the enemies' dismay. Though the damage they were able to wreak was significant, out of nowhere there came a great shout. A man's voice roared over the battlefield, and a swell of dismay engulfed the Hosts of Mordor and their allies as the remaining statues became animate once more and regrouped. Stone feet resumed their inexorable march across the Pelennor, stone swords, arrows (and harps) wrought destruction anew, and those birds which had not shattered on the fields or city below were saved mere inches from destruction, and able to soar up into the sky once more. Answering screams rang out as the marble maniacs took their revenge for the demise of so many of their fallen comrades.

Yet still Molly plummeted.

Then, miraculously, a huge figure swooped down, snatching her from the air. But the momentum of her fall and the swiftness of her rescue made the White Witch's body jerk violently; even as the marble swan's velocity saw it climb a level or two before slowing to return, her head had already snapped up, then down, and her body went completely limp.

With its mighty wings stretched wide and its legs thrust downwards, the swan descended slowly, scattering wizard, elf, men and horses as it came to a halt inches from the ground. Gently it laid Molly on the flagstones before ascending once more and zooming back across the beleaguered city wall to do some serious damage to the enemy beyond.

A crowd of men descended on the prone witch. Glorfindel, reaching her first, bent down to examine her, and Gandalf crouched worriedly beside him.

"She lives!" exclaimed the elven lord. "The jarring impact of her rescue has rendered her senseless, yet she will recover."

There was a general sigh of relief from all except Gandalf, who made his way to Molly's other side and laid his hand across her forehead. All at once the wizard drew back his hand as if it had been burned.

"Foulness!" he cried aloud. "Devilry! A thousand curses upon the fool!"

"Mithrandir?" enquired Glorfindel, looking hugely unimpressed that his Istar friend was seemingly swearing at the poor lady.

Just then, a screech directly above heralded the arrival of another visitor, and as they looked up, they caught sight of the spotted white undercarriage and black head of a Peregrine falcon. It dove at the offending soldiers crowding around the witch, weaving in and out and screeching loudly until it had scattered them before landing. Seconds later, the bird was gone, and in his place …

"Radagast the Brown!" exclaimed Gandalf, springing to his feet (yet still managing to look completely floored). "What the ..? You are here!"

"Clearly," huffed Radagast, as he manhandled Glorfindel out of Molly's way. "Never in all my years have I transformed so often before so many people, and I find the reality of it even less pleasing than the thought. Now be still, all of you! There is evil afoot here that must be dealt with immediately!"

"Yes. I have sensed it, too," said Gandalf, recovering himself admirably from the sudden appearance of his old colleague. "Evil of Saruman's making, if I am not mistaken?"

A nod was Gandalf's reply; Radagast was already divesting the witch of her tweed coat. "Shake it!" he ordered, thrusting the coat at Gandalf, who - recognising the urgency of the situation - didn't even pause before complying. Radagast busied himself combing his fingers through Molly's hair and swiping any lingering seeds from her cardigan. That done, he lifted her off the ground in one smooth motion.

"Here, take her to your place of healing. Let her be tended until she is able to join us again."

He thrust her into the arms of a bewildered Swan Knight, who gazed at the witch's pale face. "Forgive me, lord, but I think that might be asking too much of the lady. She is in a swoon."

Glorfindel rolled his eyes meaningfully. "If she is aught like the Green Witch, no swoon shall hold her long. She has a charge to care for, and I suspect only death itself would keep her from him." He turned to the Brown Wizard. "But Aiwendil, what brings you here? How ..."

He trailed off, for all were now looking in bewilderment at Radagast as he dropped to his hands and kness, gathered up the scattered pellets which he and Gandalf had loosened from Molly's coat, cardigan and hair, grabbed her abandoned woolly hat and shook it furiously, then promptly dropped it before striding swiftly to the trampled grass ring around the fountain. There, he threw the small pile of seeds away. Sinking his hand into a robe pocket, he withdrew querindae berries and threw them after the already sprouting Longbottom's Bane. Within two minutes, his plants had flowered, strangled, and consumed that batch of the crebain's cargo.

"What was that?" demanded the White Wizard as he glanced at the orange-and-green querindae blossoms, which - hunger appeased - were now swaying happily in the wind.

"Longbottom's Bane, a plant of Saruman's making to rob the boy of his magic, and one which he had almost completed before being cast from the Order."

"To rob Neville Longbottom of his magic?"

"Did I not say that? Yes. Without it, you see, he is easier to capture." Brown eyes found grey, and there was anger in them. "Saruman has been busy, my friend. Despite being divested of his power, he has still managed to forge a pact with Sauron's second lieutenant - one to turn the boy into the new ninth Nazgûl ..."

"Replacing the one he slew," surmised Gandalf, wincing at the irony of it. Not even the Mirror of Galadriel had prepared him for that possibility.

A harrumph from Radagast. "Thus securing himself a position of power by furnishing the Dark Lord with a formidable ally, whilst simultaneously enacting his ultimate revenge on both the boy's grandmother and protrectress."

There was an exclamation of disgust from Glorfindel and Imrahil. Glorfindel, especially, looked angry, and if Gandalf had to hazard a guess as to the reason why, it would probably be outrage on his 'aunt's' behalf.

Not that he blamed the elf. He was appalled by the level of Saruman's depravity. Vengeance had turned the former Istar even more dangerous, and desperation to gain some standing in what he believed would be Sauron's new world might even end up bearing fruit, if, through his machinations, Sauron gained a wraith more powerful - more terrible - than even the Witch-king of Angmar.

He was about to ask how Radagast came about this news when something occurred to him – something which sent him shouting out to the soldier bearing Molly to the Houses of Healing to halt. Quickly he raced over and, not even bothering to be delicate about it, ripped the top of her cardigan apart. Buttons flew everywhere, and Molly's throat was soon visible through her flowery open-necked blouse.

There was nothing there!

For some reason – he knew not why - Longbottom's Bane had affected Molly's magic, too. It must have, for the spell Galadriel told him the witch used to secure the Light of Varda to her body had failed utterly.

And now Elbereth's Gift was gone. But where? Had it slipped from Molly's neck during her plunge, perhaps?

He was about to whirl around in a panic and set the entire courtyard searching for it when Radagast hurriedly interceded.

"The Chosen One already bears what you seek," he announced quietly as he came up behind Gandalf. "His Guardian bestowed it upon him after his injury at Helm's Deep, though he knew it not. Even now he might yet be unaware of it."

"How is that _you_ are aware of so much, Radagast? How do you even know of Molly and Neville. Of the Light of Varda?" queried Gandalf, trying to calm his racing heart after the fright it had just taken.

Because, to be honest, the Master of Beasts, Birds, and Plants - the infamously unsociable, almost hermit-like Brown Wizard - was the _last _person Gandalf expected to meet here, in the midst of a fierce battle (of Men, no less) hundreds of leagues away from the safety of his beloved green home. And bearing news beyond even the White Wizard's knowledge, no less. Quite frankly, Gandalf could not have been more stunned.

Or so he thought …

Before the Brown Wizard could give an adequate explanation, there was an almighty keening, the sound of mighty flapping wings, and two great shadows were thrown across the courtyard. Gandalf looked up, staff raised, ready to use his Light against the Ring-wraiths if they were attempting, yet again, to gather intelligence on the defence complement directly behind the city gates. Spotting instead two Great Eagles, he lowered his staff in surprise.

First Radagast, now Gwaihir. Could this day turn any more bizarre?

It most certainly could. Even as the eagles thrust out their feet to land, the mounted knights edged their steeds back, murmuring about their strange passengers; a young, red-haired man in an outrageously green coat, and an old man in a purple robe with moving stars and moons. Gandalf shook his head, stuck his neck forward, and squinted, hardly daring to believe what he was seeing.

"Dumbledore? Albus Percival Wulfric Brian _Dumbledore?_ Do my eyes deceive me?"

Dumbledore wasted no time in answering. Already his strange companion had leapt from one of the eagles and was sprinting towards Molly with the former headmaster hot on his heels.

"Mum!" cried the young man. "Mum!"

Mum? Did he mean naneth? Was this boy Molly Weasley's _child?_

The youth wrenched his mother's inert form from the Swan Knight and sank to the ground, cradling her against his chest.

"Fear not, young Fred, she lives," said Radagast, laying a comforting hand on the boy's shoulder. "Saruman's wickedness had been dealt with. Your mother has merely been stunned by her sudden rescue. She needs but a few hours rest ere she recovers both her senses and her magic."

"Are you sure? How do you know she's not bleeding internally?"

A rather bemused Glorfindel moved forward. "I have some skill in the art of healing, and have already ascertained that she will be well."

"Some skill? But you're not a trained medi-wizard, are you? Unless you know the proper Diagnostic spell, you can't say for sure. She might be haemorrhaging all over the place and we wouldn't know until it was too late!" worried the youth – Fred – who hugged the witch to him and buried his face in her hair as if she were a lifeline.

"Allow me." Dumbledore produced his wand and waved it over Molly from head to foot. "A little trick I learned from Madam Pomfrey. It came in very handy, too, during my time in the Order of the Phoenix. If Molly has taken any serious hurt, this spell will pinpoint its location."

His wand emitted a golden light, which enveloped Molly. Fred held his breath, only releasing it when the light completely dissipated after a few seconds.

"There." Dumbledore, looked both relieved and satisfied. "Now that we know your mother will live, we really must be going, Fred."

"Going? Where?" asked Gandalf, feeling that events were becoming ever swifter, and more surreal, by the minute. "You have barely arrived. How is it even possible that you are _alive_ enough to arrive?"

"And who are you?" enquired Glorfindel, looking equally confused.

"I'm not going anywhere until my mum's awake," stated the boy, ignoring everyone.

Dumbledore's blue eyes narrowed Fred's way. But it was Gandalf he answered first, after briefly introducing himself and Fred to the others. "We are going to recover Neville, who has just been snatched by a Nazgûl. The Valar requested the help of both Fred and I to ensure Neville did _not_ fall into the Dark Lord's hands, particularly not while the Light of Varda was in his keeping – and that is exactly what we are going to do."

A terrible feeling of dread gripped the White Wizard: Neville Longbottom had the Light of Varda. Sauron's Ring-wraith now had Neville. Both were heading to Mordor that very moment!

The situation was more dire than he could ever have believed.

Shocked beyond words, he could only watch as the newest Istar stared at his companion – Molly's son, as it now turned out – with a hint of reproof in his light blue eyes. "You made a promise, Fred," said Dumbledore, successfully mastering his impatience. "Both to me, when you insisted we stop here first to ensure your mother was alive; and to Manwë and Varda, that you would help keep that pendant safe from the Dark Lord Sauron. I think it's fair to say that we have established Molly is in good health. Now is the time to keep to your promise. Neville needs our help, and he needs it now. It's what your mother would want. Let's not disappoint her, shall we?"

For a second or two, Fred kept his face buried in his mother's hair, and so his expression or intentions could not be ascertained. Finally, he gave a great sigh, inhaled the familiar fragrance of her shampoo one more time, then looked up.

"Yeah. You're right. Mum would pitch a fit. Probably even kill me."

Reluctantly he rose and handed her carefully to the still-hovering Swan Knight, then Summoned her wand, which he shoved in her pocket. For several minutes he spoke with the taller man, giving Gandalf a chance to corner Dumbledore and Radagast. Glorfindel and Imrahil joined them, more introductions were made, and the new arrivals gave them a brief account of all that had occurred since Dumbledore and Fred's arrival in Middle-earth. It was yet another astonishing story of treachery, battle, and the desperate search for a boy who seemed to be rapidly scaling his way to the top of Sauron's Yuletide wish-list.

Once the story was told, Gandalf took a few moments to reflect. Not many, for the battle raged still outside the gates. Indeed, even as the men talked, there came a terrible, familiar shrill shrieking followed shortly thereafter by the unmistakeable voice of Augusta Longbottom bellowing across the battlefield, magnified beyond all normality.

And she did not sound happy.

Gandalf shared an incredulous look with Glorfindel as the witch's rant held all momentarily captive. Whatever her opponent's reply was, they never heard, but his identity was soon made shockingly known.

"_WITCH_-KING?" Derisive feminine laughter. "YOU CAN'T BE A WITCH _AND_ A KING AT THE SAME TIME – UNLESS YOU'RE MIDDLE-EARTH'S FIRST EVER CROSS-DRESSING NOSEGHOUL! IN WHICH CASE, YOU REALLY OUGHT TO HAVE PUT A BIT MORE EFFORT INTO YOUR APPEARANCE, _YOUR MAJESTY!_"

Her voice dripped with such scorn that everyone winced.

"Neville's gran sounds a bit cheesed off," remarked Fred as he joined them, feeling more like his old self now he knew his mother was safe and on her way to a medieval hospital.

"Please tell me that she has not engaged him, of all people?" whispered the elf lord, looking very afraid for his honorary aunt-cum-granddaughter.

Clearly Gandalf could not tell him that. Still, at least it explained why Sauron's chief lieutenant had broken off his advance of the city gates – he currently had bigger problems than the sacking of Minas Tirith. Gandalf almost felt sorry for him.

But Gandalf also had bigger problems to worry about. Luckily for him, Augusta Longbottom's (very loud) opinion of the head Nazgûl's potential gender issues was keeping one of them distracted long enough for him to think.

"We must recover the Light of Varda," he said aloud.

"And Neville," added Fred pointedly.

"Naturally," continued Gandalf. "We must hope that recovering one will automatically gain us the other also, or Sauron will gain a prize greater than even he could have dreamed of. With possession of his Ring, Elbereth's Gift, and a wraith with Neville's magical essence ..."

"He would become great enough to challenge the Valar themselves," finished Glorfindel gravely. "Mithrandir, we must recover them ere all hope is lost."

"That is exactly what Fred and I intend to do, though we'll have to act quickly before the Ring-wraith gains too much of a lead on us," said Dumbledore, using his wand to Summon Molly's fallen Cleansweep (the Giant Eagles were listening to Augusta's rant with great amusement).

However, this suggestion did not sit well with Gandalf, who grasped the former headmaster's arm urgently.

"No! You must not follow the boy into Mordor, Dumbledore. Our magic may differ, but trust me when I tell you that a Wizard of your ability ... Sauron would sense you instantly. It would put him on his guard even as you crossed his borders, and all the foul minions of his land would be set upon you ere you ever reached Barad-dûr. What if he captured you? A wraith with Neville's fledgling arts would prove calamitous; one of your power would be devastating; enough, perhaps, to aid him in releasing Morgoth from the Void."

"Rubbish. Dumbledore would never be captured. Anyway, he could take on Sauron with his hands tied behind his back!" declared Fred robustly, earning himself a twinkly glance from his former headmaster.

Augusta's voice boomed out again, followed by a dreadful shriek and a tremendous blast. Outside the walls trolls roared, men screamed and there came the sound of several enormous _thumps!_

"In my experience with dark lords, Gandalf – and I have, unfortunately, had more than my fair share of them - they are not prone to sharing power with anyone, never mind voluntarily ceding it to a stronger rival," said Dumbledore, ignoring the terrific racket as easily as he would Argus Filch's constant pleading to reintroduce the hanging of disruptive students by their wrists. "It seems more likely to me that, as a former apprentice of Morgoth, Sauron's ambition now is to outshine his teacher. Freeing Morgoth would effectively put a stop to that, and somehow I doubt Sauron would be happy playing second fiddle to anyone after being the main threat in Arda for so long. But this is all hypothetical. Allow me to flatter myself enough to think that I could ably avoid a Fell Beast or two, or whatever other creature the Dark Lord might throw my way. I will not leave a student of mine to the mercy of torture, particularly not_ that_ student."

The broomstick in his hand gave a sudden lurch, and Dumbledore had to grasp it more firmly.

"I am not suggesting that you should. Simply that _you_ must not be the one to recover him."

Silver eyebrows raised as Dumbledore eyed Gandalf shrewdly over his strange, half-moon spectacles. For over a minute they stared at each other, Gandalf willing his friend from the Void to see sense all the while. Finally, Dumbledore – fighting against another sudden lurch of the Cleansweep – sighed as he tapped it with his wand. It fell still in his hand thereafter.

"As reluctant as I am to admit it, you might have a point. But we both know that neither you nor Radagast can go; as fellow Maiar, he would be equally aware of you, too. Which leaves us with the one option I am loathe to consider – at least, not without my personal protection."

"I hope you are not referring to my aunt," said Glorfindel, a little coolly.

Gandalf snorted at that, proclaiming that Sauron would hear the Green Witch coming before he ever sensed her. "What we require is someone whose magical powers are not yet fully mature."

Everyone's gaze swung to Fred.

"Brilliant. I don't know what to be more offended about; the fact that Gandalf thinks my magic is too puny for Sauron to notice, or the fact that you think I need protecting," Fred grumbled to Dumbledore. "I'd like to point out that I am an adult, so it's not really up to you. And, as I'm the only option left, and time is ticking on ..."

Dumbledore turned about and began pacing over what free space there was in the courtyard, Cleansweep in one hand, the other bunched into a fist behind his back. Gandalf had the sudden, overwhelming feeling that there was more to the headmaster's reluctance than simple fear for a former student. Fred was right, though: time _was_ ticking on.

Spying Molly's hat lying on the ground, Dumbledore glanced at Radagast. "Have you ..?"

Radagast nodded. "It too has been cleansed of Saruman's foulness."

Summoning it, Dumbledore returned to the others. "It seems we have no other option," he said, handing Molly's hat to Fred. "If Fred stays, and the Dark Lord wins, we risk the destruction of all our futures. Sauron is hardly likely to rest until he's destroyed us all anyway." His voice was grave, eyebrows drawn together as he observed the red-headed youth, and he seemed to be thinking aloud. "If I left you here, I couldn't keep an eye you; you might still die ..."

"Been there, done that. It's not so bad," quipped Fred, though he was duly ignored.

"... and there is the danger," muttered Dumbledore, "however remote, that Sauron might capture me. But if I let you go on alone ..."

His words made Gandalf frown anew. Why was he so reluctant to despatch the boy when their need was so great?

"No. We'll have to risk it. Time is flying and there really is no other choice. Fred goes, I stay. But you'll have to be careful, Fred, because it will be very dangerous. I won't be there to help you."

The words had hardly passed his lips when Molly's woolly hat suddenly stretched in Fred's grip; so much so that it made a muffled sort of clunking sound on the ground. Puzzled, her son looked inside, and gaped wordlessly before pulling the Sword of Gryffindor from within its depths.

"Maybe this can help instead?" grinned the young man. "Imagine finding this inside Mum's hat. Mum's! Wait 'til I tell her!"

The silver sword must have had the potential to help a lot, for – much to everyone's surprise – Dumbledore smiled in delight as he eyed the beautiful, ruby-encrusted weapon.

"Do you know, I believe that _that"_ - he pointed to the sword - "is what Sybill would call 'a sign'!"

"Forgive me, but how can a mere sword lend such certainty?" enquired Imrahil.

"That is no mere sword. If I am correct, 'tis the very weapon Neville Longbottom used to slay one of the Nine," guessed Glorfindel, looking very impressed.

"Ten points to Rivendell," beamed Dumbledore. "It only presents itself to a worthy Gryffindor in times of need."

"And we are certainly in great need," concluded Gandalf.

Dumbledore nodded, looking decidedly more chipper than he had minutes ago. "Of course, you'll have to Disillusion yourself, Fred ..."

"... so the git doesn't spot me lurking about his castle. No problem."

"And it might be a good idea to refrain from using magic in Mordor as much as possible, unless it becomes absolutely necessary ..."

"... which it hopefully won't if no one can see me. Plus I've got the Sword of Gryffindor now."

"Don't get too overconfident. And you'll need to leave instantly because ..."

"... the Nazgûl's got a head start. Again, no problem. Give me the Cleansweep."

"Your magic broom will not be swift enough to catch a Fell Beast, Fred Weasley," said Gandalf. Fred, who had been eyeing the broomstick almost hungrily, frowned. Radagast dutifully absented himself to appeal to the Great Eagles, then Gwaihir spoke up for the first time since landing.

"Meneldor has gladly offered to put himself at your disposal, son of Men, though whatever arts you intend to use to conceal yourself must be used on him also until your return."

Gandalf nodded. "Then all is set. There is no more time to waste. Go, Fred, and make certain that you do not return empty handed!"

One of the Gondorian soldiers stepped forward, offering Fred a sheath, and helped him strap it around his waist. "'Twas my captain's, who has fallen this day," he revealed. "May it see you to better fortune than he!"

Fred blinked in response to the rather dubious recommendation, but he gamefully slid the Sword of Gryffindor into it anyway. "I'll take good care of it, thanks," he promised before heading for Meneldor. The graceful bird dutifully lowered himself to allow him to clamber on, and then Fred Disillusioned them both, to everyone's awe but Dumbledore's, and Glorfindel's (who looked merely wistful) and Gwaihir's (who looked as if nothing could ever ruffle his feathers. Except wind).

"Send a Patronus as soon as you have Neville and the Light of Varda, Fred," ordered Dumbledore.

"I will."

"Stealth must be your greatest ally! Do not engage the Enemy unless you have no choice," ordered Gandalf.

"I won't."

"Try not to fall from your perch ere you reach the Chosen One. Meneldor may have a difficult task rescuing one whom he cannot see," advised Radagast.

"I shall simply track his screams as he plummets," deadpanned the mighty Eagle.

"Sounds like fun! Any more advice before I go?"

Dumbledore approached the general area where Fred and Meneldor waited, ready to take flight.

"Be careful, Fred," he said, growing notably more serious. "Do your very best to bring yourself and Neville back safely."

Fred nodded, though no one noticed (because no one could see him). "I will. But do me a favour, will you, Albus? Make sure no one tells Mum I was here until I get back. Just in case I _don't_ get back. There's no need for her to go through the grieving process all over again."

"Fred, I can't stress how important it is that you _do _come back!" said Dumbledore fiercely. "Furthermore - and you won't like this; nevertheless it's very important that you do exactly as I say – if it comes down to a choice between Neville and the Light of Varda, you must sacrifice Neville, and return with the pendant."

"_What? _You _have_ to be joking!" exclaimed Fred, so incensed that, even though they couldn't really see him, everyone could hear him plainly. All eyes swung their way in rampant curiosity, though few dared draw close enough to eavesdrop.

"Listen to me carefully, Fred," warned Dumbledore. "The crebain have already reached Neville, something we must assume from the ease of his capture. But Longbottom's Bane was only supposed to affect_ him._ The fact that it affected your mother as well can only mean that the charm she used to secure the Light of Varda to Neville will have failed – at least until you destroy the seeds and cast the spell again. In the meantime, all Sauron has to do is reach out and snap the chain from his neck, providing he gets his hands on him. So, if _you_ reach Neville first, don't waste time stripping him, you'll only fall under the seeds' influence again. Just charm his clothes off and destroy them. Shear his hair off with your wand, too, if you must. Then use a Semi-Permanent Charm to secure the Light of Varda and get the pair of you back here as quickly as possible. But if it looks like _Sauron_ might get his hands on Neville, and you get close enough" - the older wizard sighed with the weight of responsibility - "then Summon the pendant and Disapparate immediately."

"Why can't we just Summon it from here?"

"You know the distance is too far, Fred."

"But Neville ..."

"Dumbledore is correct," agreed Gandalf, intervening quickly. "None of us wish to lose Neville; however there is more at stake here than one life. Do not forget there is another quest under way, and it shall prove the deciding factor in the fate of us all. If Frodo and his faithful servant are successful, then not even the Light of Varda will save Sauron. It will survive the destruction of Mordor, whereas he and all his works will not. But if the hobbits are not successful ..."

Gandalf trailed off, not needing to elaborate. Fred remained silent for a few moments, obviously deliberating over what he had just heard, and Gandalf could well imagine the youth's struggle to accept what they were asking of him. Fred had probably never been confronted with such a task, particularly not one which might involve the abandonment of someone he knew to a terrible fate. As much as the Maia regretted the necessity of forcing it upon him, however, all eventualities had to be considered.

"Fine," said the former twin in a strangled sort of voice. "I don't like it, but if that's the way it has to be, fine. But Merlin help you if anything does happen to Neville, because you'll be the ones explaining to Mrs Longbottom why_ I _ended up safe and sound with Varda's protection swinging from my neck, while her grandson ended up dead or worse in Mordor. And Albus, please remember what I said about Mum, just in case. Meneldor, I'm ready to go if you are."

There was a whoosh of mighty wings as, without another word, Fred and the Eagle departed, leaving friends old and new staring up at the lightening sky. Gandalf was concerned about the manner of the boy's departure.

"He sounded angry. Do you think he will do what has to be done?" he asked of Dumbledore.

"Naturally he is angry. I've just told him he might have to abandon a fellow Gryffindor to a fate worse than death. Will he do what has to be done?" The wizard paused, then, "Fred will do what he feels has to be done, but I have every faith in him, regardless."

Somehow, that wasn't much of a comfort to Gandalf.

As they stood peering at the sky above for two figures they couldn't see, but knew were swiftly disappearing into the distance, Augusta's voice suddenly boomed again on the Pelennor, shaking them all back to the reality of their present situation. Gandalf and Dumbledore exchanged knowing looks.

"I do believe the Green Witch has a regard for me," announced Glorfindel, seemingly out of the blue. The fair lord gave both White and Purple wizards a sidelong glance as he spoke. "If we survive this war at the cost of her grandchild, I will use whatever influence I have to ensure that she does not slay you both. It might be wise, however, to begin discussing who is willing among you to sacrifice themselves to her wrath in order to spare the other."

"If anything happens to Neville, I will happily let her kill me," replied Dumbledore, perfectly seriously. "If anything happens to Fred, however, neither of us will survive long enough for her to do much of anything."

Several pairs of eyes settled on the Purple Wizard.

"What do you mean?" asked Gandalf, sensing he was about to get to the bottom of Dumbledore's main concern. He was right. Blue eyes found grey, and Gandalf saw a strange sadness within their depths.

"Longbottom's Bane," began Dumbledore. "That was the clue. It was designed specifically to affect Neville. But when Fred and I stumbled across it in Orthanc, he was drawn to it straight away. It also blocked his magic at Helm's Deep, and, as you noticed, Molly's just now in Minas Tirith. Do you know why?"

Radagast answered first. "Because they are mother and child?" he theorised.

"Mostly correct, but not quite there."

Realisation suddenly struck, and Gandalf's jaw dropped. Spotting it, Dumbledore nodded.

"Precisely. I am only marginally affected because my relation through the ages has been so diluted, and Longbottom's Bane was not intended to affect me personally. Neville, and Augusta, had she come into contact with it – which we can safely discount given the havoc she's causing outside - would _both_ be directly affected because Saruman's plant was designed specifically for Neville's magical signature, and he has a direct blood link to Augusta through his father. Molly was affected through her direct blood link to Fred. And Fred was affected ..."

"... because he is the sire of Wizardkind as you know it," deduced Gandalf.

The former headmaster sighed. "Exactly. If Neville dies, it will mean the extinction of the Longbottom line. Augusta will return to the Wizarding World, mourning her grandson and cursing the circumstances which brought them both to Middle-earth."

Glorfindel looked visibly shaken at the thought of the lady's despair.

"But," continued Dumbledore, "if Fred dies before the war is won, before he has had a chance to live, to marry, to become a father …" He shrugged. "Well. I think you get the general idea."

Gandalf did. _Everyone_ did. The conclusion was inescapable: if Fred Weasley died before the War of the Ring was won, there would be no Wizarding World to go back to.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Author's Note_: It's been a struggle to write Gandalf and Dumbledore interacting with each other without them seeming like the same person. And, to be honest, I'm finding it more and more difficult to write Fred without George. But it has to be done as it's a big part of the plot now. Speaking of which ...

Dum, dum, DUMMMMM! There it is, one of the big reveals. I have to say, I'm staggered no one suspected it, (or told me they might) because I was dropping hints left, right and centre.

*chortles in manic delight*

Actually, now that I think of it, I hope this doesn't go down badly.

*gulps*

Let me clear something up though, so this doesn't confuse anyone: Fred (if he lives) would be the father of wizardry as it is known in the HP world. Assuming he survives the Ring War, his descendants will thrive, and at least some of them will endure through all the ages of the world to come. Then we reach the starting point of wizarding history as the HP world knows it. By then his descendants would be numerous and scattered all over the world, and all events of wizarding history as recorded in canon would proceed as per normal. Hogwarts is grounded, Slytherin storms off in a huff, the Ministry of Magic is grounded, the Statute of Secrecy, the prophecy, Harry Potter, etc. None of these events will change or can change, _if_ Fred lives through the Ring War. But in order to have the _opportunity_ of living through the Ring War, he first has to get to Middle Earth, and that will only happen if he dies at the Battle of Hogwarts.

Get it? Crikey, I hope so. I know it's all a bit paradox-y, with Fred being his own mega-million times great grandfather and all that, and it doesn't help that I can be a bit crap at rationalising, but hopefully this will explain things a bit better if you're feeling a bit bemused by it all.

I'll reproof this chapter (again) tomorrow, but otherwise, this might be the last one for a few weeks as I'm back to work after my holiday. Boo hoo.

Next chapter: Augusta's reaction to Neville's abduction (I've given you a taster already), and a dramatic showdown in the Citadel. Don't miss it!

Please review ...

Kara's Aunty ;)


	53. Hell hath no Fury like a Green Witch

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter is owned by J.K Rowling, etc. and Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit and The Silmarillion are owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in their magical worlds.

**Credit: **thainsbook dot net, harrypotterwikia dot com, thesaurus dot com, shakespearewords dot com.

*****Please R & R. It really _is_ my only reward*****

**Chapter 53**

* * *

_Minas Tirith_

_Third Age, 15th March 3019_

Middle-earth had never seen anything remotely akin to the fury of Augusta Longbottom when she saw her only grandchild being hauled away by a Nazgûl.

_Ever._

Unable to reach him, or cast a Patronus at the wraith in case its Fell Beast dropped Neville to his death in its terror, she screamed in fear and fury. It was so blood-curdling a sound that her oliphaunt reared in fright, sending her careening down the length of its back until she toppled from the creature. Fortunately for her, she had the presence of mind to cast a Cushioning charm, so she landed safely.

Unfortunately for the unlucky enemies around her – who, after a great cheer, were busying themselves destroying as many of the suddenly immobile statues as possible - she now had no desire whatsoever to Apparate back into the city.

Oh, no. Not even slightly.

Safely back on solid ground, with control of her own mobility fully re-established, Augusta Longbottom's greatest desire now was to kill, _kill_, KILL.

In a blind frenzy of hatred, the elderly witch picked herself up and stormed into the enemy ranks in her little corner of the Pelennor, mindless of her peril, gripped only by the uncontrollable need to destroy her enemies. She was a one-woman slaying machine with vengeance on her mind, and _everyone _was going to pay.

"_Confringo! Reducto! Oppugno! Serpensortia Maxima!"_

Wooden towers exploded, a trebuchet was blasted to bits, wood and metal fragments became deadly missiles hurtling toward huge trolls, and a large nest of snakes shot from Augusta's wand, sending brass-and-burgundy clad warriors scrabbling over each other in their need to get as far away from them as possible.

Yet the witch had barely started venting. Further into their fleeing ranks she raced with her wand blazing a path of destruction before her. So beside herself was she, that the arrival of the Great Eagles – and thus the delivery of Albus Dumbledore and Fred Weasley - went completely over her head, and the sudden reanimation of the remaining statues completely passed her by.

Both literally _and_ figuratively.

Nothing mattered to her now except her insatiable need to destroy those who thought to rob her of her boy.

"_Tarantallegra!" _screamed Augusta, and an unfortunate troll jigged its very unsteady way right into the path of a falling rock, courtesy of the good citizens of Minas Tirith.

Served it right! Served them all right! If they thought they could take her Neville from her without so much as a by your leave, they were in for a _big_ surprise. Every last one of them!

"_Defodio!"_

The earth under one of Sauron's massive war machines was gouged away, sending the apparatus toppling backwards onto a squadron of screaming Southrons. It was satisfying, in its way, to hear them hurting as much as she was. Not pleasurable (she was a grandmother, not a monster!), but satisfying.

Then again, maybe it wasn't ...

"_Accendibus inimícos!"_

A swarm of bees erupted from her busy wand, heading straight for the sortie of Haradrim that was trying to cut off her advance towards mid-field, where great companies of their comrades were leading mighty oliphaunts with siege towers and a battering ram inexorably toward the main gates of Minas Tirith. A wise move on their part, considering the damage they feared this terrifying enemy might inflict on that main assault; but alas! Their attempt failed miserably when her swarm engulfed them, viciously stinging exposed flesh, and they danced around swatting and swiping wildly in the air. Five keeled over within seconds, clutching their throats, never to breathe again, while the remainder ran hither and thither over the battlefield, squealing like newborns as the swarm followed them wherever they went.

And still Augusta was volcanic with rage.

By now she had covered an impressive quarter of a mile, fury giving fuel to her aged hips and legs, and anyone within reach of her wand had, by now, sensibly decided to put themselves well _out_ of her reach. Every arrow that flew her way mysteriously found itself lodged in its owner's body instead; every rock that soared her way soared back towards the enemy and fell as a shower of acid rain. Screams for 'mummy' followed in her wake, and few in her path ahead dared chellenge her. Those who were brave enough to draw their swords suddenly found themselves battling Helping Hands, which snatched weapons from the dead and challenged the enemy with a cheery 'En garde!"

Closer she came to the edge of the swaggering psychopaths leading their massive pets and towering machines ever forward, close enough to finally do some _real_ damage.

"_Cylindro rotarum!"_ she bellowed triumphantly, striking out at the oliphaunt leading the herd.

Four _enormous_ roller-skates appeared out of nowhere, one on each giant foot, and the poor oliphaunt gave a huge trumpet of terror as it suddenly ploughed straight into the rear company of scarlet-clad Haradrim infantry, its siege tower swaying wildly behind it. Soldiers were either mown down by the oliphaunt itself or flattened by the machine it was dragging (which, unable to take the strain of the volatile motion, had crashed to its side), and only by the time the creature was half way through the company did those Haradrim nearer the front realise what was going on. Their yelps of dismay were drowned out by the oliphaunt's wild trumpeting as it whizzed through their ranks; many threw themselves left or right of its course only to find themselves squashed by the tower, which finally snapped free of its bindings and rolled to a thunderous halt somewhere in the midst of the next company ahead.

So terrific was the noise by this time that it drowned out the aerial war between the Great Eagles and Fell Beasts, who were attacking each other with relish, and the distant _thump, thump, thump _of the remnant Marble Army, who had their hands full trying to stop several enormous battallions of orcs flowing through the Rammas Echor once more from the Causeway_._ But the amount of damage Augusta was causing could not go unchallenged for much longer ...

From somewhere at the very head of the Haradrim companies, there issued a shrill, piercing cry. Silence fell over all but the farthest reaches of the Pelennor when a dark figure raised its sword, bringing a halt to the march of its minions, and broke away from the vanguard. It rode swiftly across the mile or so separating them, crying words of terror that made everyone shrink from it.

Everyone, that is, except one very, _very_, angry witch.

All around them battle ceased: Siege towers halted. Trebuchets on both sides of the city stilled. Archers everywhere paused; all eyes were now irresistibly drawn to the inevitable face-off between the dreadful, towering, black-mantled, steel-crowned, sword-bearing, mace-swinging Lord of the Nazgûl, and the tiny, stick-wielding old woman.

"Who art thou who darest challenge the authority of Sauron, Lord of Arda?" cried the Nazgûl, chilling the very air with its breath as it came to a stop ten feet away.

Lord of Arda her foot! Enormous eyesore, more like. And here was some of the crust it oozed, coming to challenge her.

Challenge her? In the state of mind she was in?

What. An. Idiot.

Augusta - who was by now beyond the reaches of either sense or reason – experienced a thrill of pure, incandescent rage at the sheer gall of the brazen fool, and at his obvious attempt to cow her with nothing more than a hissy voice. And before he had even introduced himself, as well! The insufferable ignoramus!

Well, two could play at that game. If that shabby excuse for a Dementor wanted a shouting match, she was definitely up for it. _No one_ could shout like Augusta Longbottom (and if Mr Longbottom were alive, he would gladly confirm it)!

So, after taking a deep breath and Sonorising her throat, she proved it, too.

"LONBOTTOM'S THE NAME! YOU CAN TELL YOUR SILLY MASTER AUGUSTA LONGBOTTOM CHALLENGES HIM. THAT'S L-O-N-G-B-O-T-T-O-M, IF YOU NEED TO WRITE IT DOWN. FURTHERMORE, I'LL BE _YOUR WORST NIGHTMARE_ IF YOU DON'T TELL YOUR HORRID FRIEND TO BRING MY GRANDSON BACK THIS INSTANT!"

There was an odd sort of clanging and rattling as men in mail everywhere jumped at the volume of her reply, which seemed even louder in the silence which had fallen. Her opponent, however, emitted a strange whining rasp.

He was laughing at her!

"So thou art the Green Witch, Scourge of Orthanc and lesser Wizards. Yet no match for me!"

"IS THAT SO?" seethed Augusta, sick to the back teeth of people who thought they were better than her. Or any threat to her. "AND WHAT MAKES YOU THINK YOU'RE SO SPECIAL?"

He urged his wild-eyed, ebony steed a few steps forward, closing the distance between them a little more. The chill grew, but the witch stood her ground. He practically loomed over her, though they were still seven feet apart; forcing her to look up, using his height to try and intimidate her.

Men! So predictable.

"I? I am thy doom, foolish one! I am the Witch-king of Angmar, Lord of the Nazgûl, highest lieutenant of the Dark Lord Sauron!"

If he thought this shocking revelation would put the fear of said dark lord into her, he couldn't have been more wrong.

"_WITCH_-KING?" Augusta laughed derisively. "YOU CAN'T BE A WITCH _AND_ A KING AT THE SAME TIME – UNLESS YOU'RE MIDDLE-EARTH'S FIRST EVER CROSS-DRESSING NOSEGHOUL! IN WHICH CASE, YOU REALLY OUGHT TO HAVE PUT A BIT MORE EFFORT INTO YOUR APPEARANCE, _YOUR MAJESTY!_"

Her reply sent a tsunami of horrified gasps up the field; no one could believe someone would _dare_ address Sauron's most feared instrument thus. Even the Ring-wraith was taken aback – for a moment.

But none of them were a raging granny, so it was understandable.

Quickly regrouping himself, the Witch-king's next remark was aimed straight for her heart, intended to cause as much despair as possible before he slaughtered her.

"Mock as thou wilst. Still I am more comely than thy grandchild shall be when my lord is done with him, in Mordor bleak. He is but even now gone hence, and no more wouldst I recall him to thee than wouldst I lay down my sword and entreat thee for a song."

To give him his due, the Witch-king did make her flinch. Just the mere thought of what Sauron might do to her grandson terrified her. What he did not bargain with was her iron resolve. Augusta had already lost a son to torture; she would not lose her grandson to it as well. Not in a million years!

"WELL, THEN. IF YOU'RE NOT PREPARED TO BRING HIM BACK, I SUPPOSE I'LL JUST HAVE TO FETCH HIM FOR MYSELF, EVEN IF I HAVE TO FIGHT MY WAY PAST THAT INFECTION YOU CALL A MASTER TO GET HIM! AND WHEN I _DO_ BRING MY GRANDSON BACK, I'LL MAKE SURE YOU'RE HIS NEXT TARGET. YOU DO KNOW _WHO_ MY GRANDSON IS, DON'T YOU? HE'S THE ONE WHO KILLED ONE OF YOUR RUNNY NOSEGHOUL FRIENDS - SO_ YOU_ SHOULDN'T POSE TOO MUCH OF A PROBLEM FOR HIM."

The crowd winced in terror as the wraith shrieked in rage, and the folds of his mantle fluttered madly about him. But all were spellbound by the sight of the pair nonetheless, and no one could tear their eyes from them, even to attack each other.

Finished venting, the Ring-wraith leaned forward on his horse and inclined his crowned head Augusta's way.

"Thy kin shall wither in the Houses of Lamentation, Green Witch, his mind laid bare before the Dark Lord! Yet even were he stood before me now, using whatever arts he employed to slay my brother, still would it bear no effect upon me. Knowest thou not that no living man may hinder me?"

Was that supposed to _scare_ her? For pity's sake, all that meant was that everyone else _could_ hinder him. Elves (and house-elves), hobbits (and mini-Muggles), children (Merlin forbid!), dwarves. Half his blasted army weren't even men, so they could easily take a swipe at him.

Idiot!

Augusta sniffed disdainfully. "REALLY? NO LIVING MAN, EH? NOT SOMETHING I'D NECESSARILY BE BOASTING ABOUT IN YOUR POSITION, WERE I CONFRONTING A _WOMAN_ IN THE MIDST OF BATTLE, YOU COLOSSAL NINCOMPOOP," she said scornfully. "ALSO RATHER SHOCKINGLY BAD LUCK FOR YOU, WHEN YOUR FELLOW NOSEGHOULS ARE 'NO LIVING MEN', EITHER. IN FACT, I'D ADVISE YOU TO WATCH YOUR BACK IN CASE ONE OF THEM IS LOOKING TO OUST YOU FROM YOUR PERCH. SOME PEOPLE WILL DO ANYTHING TO GET TO THE TOP OF THE CAREER LADDER. OF COURSE, ONCE ONE IS ACTUALLY THERE – AS YOU SEEM TO THINK YOU ARE -THE ONLY WAY IS DOWN."

The fact that one of his undead brethren might actually be a threat to him must not have occurred to the Witch-king before, for his malevolent gaze hurriedly swept the heavens to make sure none were trying to sneak up and stab him in aforementioned back. Luckily for him, the thought had obviously not occurred to them either (they were leagues away up the Pelennor, fleeing from the Great Eagles, so he need not fear they had heard the shrivelled witch). Unluckily for him, he should have been paying more attention to Augusta's closing remark ...

Not that someone as splendidly well-mannered as she would _usually_ attack without giving someone a chance to deserve it first, of course; but there were exceptions to every rule. Kidnapping her grandchild was one of them.

And all is fair in love and war, as the saying goes ...

Using his fraction of a second's distraction as an invite to (in Algie's words) 'give it some welly', she did exactly that.

With a jab of her wand, Augusta blasted the Witch-king backward off his steed, and he hit the ground with a resounding _thump_ before skidding across it and coming to a halt several yards away. Some brave souls on the city battlements actually tittered in incredulity at the sight. Enraged by his treatment at her hands, the Witch-king raised himself up, and took long, deliberate strides her way.

Well up for the fight, she braced herself, casting a Shield when his mace came whooshing at her in a deadly arc. It bounced harmlessly away, making him hiss in frustration. He tried again, with the same effect.

"So thou wouldst cower behind an invisible shield, Witch?" he spat.

"SO THOU WOULDST COWER BEHIND A HUNDRED THOUSAND LACKEYS, YOU WRETCHED -"

She fired a spell at his ugly crown.

"- RANCID -"

The crown shot off his head and hovered in the air.

"- REPULSIVE -"

The crown started thwacking him on the head.

"REPROBATE!"

Augusta tried not to crow as the Witch-king attempted to swat his crown away, without success (it zipped smartly between his hands every time and bashed him).

She tried. She failed.

"WHY, YOU'RE NO MORE A KING THAN I AM, AND THE ONLY _ROYAL_ THING ABOUT YOU IS THE ENORMOUS PAIN IN THE ..."

Deposed and desperate, he cut her rant off with a wave of his sword, which erupted into flame, and then he struck out mightily at the attacking crown. It split into two and fell at his feet.

"WELL, LOOK AT THAT. NOW YOU'RE JUST AS COMMON AS THE REST OF US!"

More shocked laughter rang from the city walls, and her foe seemed to swell in anger (she had that effect on people).

"_Thou shalt pay for thine insults this day, cursed Witch!" _cried the wraith, storming her way with a scream on his lips and his blazing sword raised.

Now that their spat had turned physical, it seemed to spark a signal for battle to recommence; Haradrim companies (who'd had no choice but to fell the roller-skating oliphaunt ere it reached the third company) regrouped, manfully hauled the carcass out of their path, and continued their march toward Minas Tirith's gates, so that Grond would be waiting for their leader when he disposed of the troublesome (but admittedly very scary) old lady; laughter subsided and rocks began hurtling anew to and from the city; arrows shot back and forth - though no one dared shoot any at the main players on the field (if the Witch-king won, he might kill them afterwards; if the Green Witch won; she might hurt them first, _then_ kill them).

"My master bade me bring thee to Him, were I to snare thee. Yet He did not state whether that need be dead or alive," hissed the Witch-king as they circled each other. "Now that I have met thee, I find that dead is more appealing."

She laughed scornfully without taking her eyes off him. "THAT MAY VERY WELL BE, BUT YOU'LL HAVE TO FIND ME _FIRST_!"

With a twist, she Disapparated, appearing ten yards away to find that he had frozen, and was staring at the spot she'd so recently vacated, obviously wondering where in the name of Sauron's missing bits she'd gone.

"OVER HERE, YOU DISGUSTING, DEPLORABLE, DIMWIT!"

Eyes blazing, he thundered her way, passing his very spooked horse as he raised his sword aloft. Augusta waited a second longer, then twisted anew.

"OVER HERE, YOU CRETINOUS CRIMINAL!"

Once more he whirled to the side, trying to catch her; once more she Disapparated until ...

"I'M BEHIND YOU!" Augusta blared, two feet from his back. This time, he jumped a clear inch from the ground in shock, and when he turned, she didn't bother Disapparating. Aiming her wand straight into his face, she hit him with the grandmother of all Stinging hexes and _then_ Disapparated.

Such was the power behind her spell that the Witch-king shrieked dreadfully, so loudly that even ten feet away wasn't far enough. Augusta nearly doubled over when she reappeared, and quickly clamped her hands to her ears. So shrill was his shriek, that in the end, she muffled the sound with magic, and even then her ears will still ringing.

Taking advantage of the precious seconds she used to stick her fingers in her ears and wiggle them furiously (disgusting female!), and finally twigging on to the fact that she and her strange magic might possibly pose a real threat to him (hateful female!), the Witch-king blindly stumbled toward his waiting horse and fled from her.

_Very_ quickly.

He was not the only one trying to take advantage of her momentary lapse, although others were attempting to be more proactive than reactive: a battalion of orcs and wargs tried to sneak past the rock-lobbing trebuchets on Augusta's left, but she saw them from the corner of her eye.

Idiots! Didn't they know that deaf didn't equal blind?

Fed up with every last one of them, she whirled about and viciously slashed a Confringo Maxima beneath their feet. It was an extremely powerful spell; one which hit the ground causing a fierce explosion that catapulted earth, rocks, wargs, orcs, men, and one or two lumbering trolls high into the air, sending them all soaring into the masses behind. The enemy gave a collective roar, those with shields trying to cover their heads as (bits of) people, creatures and objects ghoulishly rained down upon them in a macabre torrent. Others ran pell mell in every direction to avoid both the debris and the witch, hoping that if they avoided her from now on, she might do them the same favour.

It must have been their lucky day because, as aforementioned lady stared transfixed at the smoking crater she had gouged in the earth, shaking with emotion, all she could see in her mind's eye was the image of her rapidly dwindling grandson. Rage was ebbing, and fear was taking its place. How unfortunate for the Witch-king that he hadn't stayed long enough to exploit it! Or maybe fortunate after all, because if he hadn't tried to shatter her eardrums like that, she would definitely have wiped the floor with him!

Maybe later. For now, her thoughts were filled with her grandchild's stunned expression as he spied her, and his yell of surprise as he was stolen away before she could explain why she was here (and give him a piece of her mind) …

Determination snapped her out of her fugue, and the steel in her character reasserted itself as she ordered her thoughts.

She had to get Neville back. She absolutely _had_ to. There were no two ways about it. She couldn't lose him too – it would kill her.

Although only a few minutes had passed since he was snatched, suddenly it felt like hours, and she racked her brain wildly for a way that would enable her to catch up with her boy. Fell Beasts were out of the question (obviously). Great Eagles, too, because they had chased the first option out of sight. The remaining possibility, marble birds (four swans, a seagull, and three tiny humming birds), were either too slow or too small.

Dash it all! If only she had a …

Merlin! Maybe she did!

Praying that Molly had somehow been saved from death (and that she hadn't landed on her Cleansweep if not) Augusta wordlessly Summoned the broomstick.

It didn't appear.

Fiddlesticks! What if Molly _had_ landed on it? Broken it in two? No, that couldn't have happened. The broomstick fell after she did. So why wasn't it coming? Was Molly alive, well, and gripping it firmly in her hand? If so, _why the blazes hadn't she mounted it and taken off after Neville immediately?_

Augusta tried again, but no luck. Every attempt thereafter failed, and with no Molly in sight, she began to worry that the witch had perished after all, and the Cleansweep damaged into the bargain. Perhaps shattered by a rock, or splintered on impact after falling from so high?

But, good heavens! That wouldn't suit her at all!

"ACCIO CLEANSWEEP!" she yelled stubbornly, and the sound of her voice sent a collective shiver up the Pelennor. However, it was simply not to be. Wherever the Cleansweep was, it wasn't coming her way.

But she needed it! It was the only way to get her grandson back. Dash it all, but if she had to rebuild the stupid thing twig by twig, she'd do it – and in record time, too! So if the Cleansweep wouldn't come to her, she'd have to go it.

Which meant facing Molly's potentially ruined body.

Rage flared within her again as she wondered how the newly-bereaved Weasleys would cope with this, their mother's inexplicable death (if Augusta ever got back home to tell them of it).

It was so unfair! Hadn't those poor children lost enough? And Arthur ...

She aimed her wand again. "THIS ONE'S FOR MOLLY, YOU SCREAMING COWARDS!"

Screaming is exactly what the Haradrim did when another oliphaunt skated crazily into their ranks. And another. And another ….

Relieved that she had worked off the worst of her rage, and that she could now concentrate sufficiently enough to retrieve her grandchild, Augusta cancelled the Sonorus charm on her throat, patted her iron grey hair down, sniffed (massively) and steeled herself for the shock ahead. With a brief twist, she Disapparated into the lower circle of Minas Tirith.

And a shock is exactly what she got when she arrived there, though hardly the one she was expecting ...

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

_Author's Note_: It wasn't my intention to post this chapter today – particularly not as it is so short – but after I closed it down, I got a review wherein the reviewer stated today was her birthday, and she was hoping for a new chapter due to that fact. Feeling really guilty - because I knew it might be another week or so until I finished the intended chapter - I've posted this as is, and will get started on the rest (now the next chapter) at the weekend, if RL doesn't get in the way. So, PolishKlutz, this one's for you. Happy Birthday!

Maybe the W-k could've tried harder to kill Augusta (and vice versa). There's no doubt he's capable of it (and vice versa). However he's been caught off guard by her because he has no previous experience of her magic. Augusta could definitely have killed him. So why didn't she? Her purpose was to humiliate him first, and kill him later, but he fled after her super-strength Stinging Hex, so ...

I know I've several reviews to reply to yet; I will do so after work tomorrow or Friday.

Bye.

Kara's Aunty ;)

PS: This birthday thing won't work any more, so don't get any ideas, folks ..;)


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